


Magpie

by charcoaleyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, F/M, Hand Jobs, Het, Het and Slash, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, Walkers (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoaleyes/pseuds/charcoaleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Alexandria, Rick and Daryl are parted. How do they cope in the years that follow, can they find their way back to each other again, and if so, can things ever be what they were before?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a prison-era fic of around 3000 words. But then this happened. It includes some original characters purely to help the plot along at times, hope no-one is put off from reading by their inclusion.
> 
> This is my first Rick/Daryl fic, so all comments would be massively appreciated.

It was during the fifth winter after Alexandria fell that Rick realised he hadn't seen any walkers for thirteen days. He stood, hands on hips, looking out of their cabin window. Watching, waiting. The same every day. 

"Maybe this is nature righting itself again," a soft voice behind him said, and he turned to see Maggie smiling gently at him, her face wan and her hair untidy, as it always was since Glenn... well, since Glenn. She wore a navy cotton shirt, and the dark colour made her look even more washed out than normal. It was a far cry from the vibrant, horse-riding, cowboy-hatted girl he had first met. He missed her fire, but he could understand why it was gone. None of them had the vigour that they used to.

"Sounds like something your dad would have said," he replied, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

"I think so."

Rick turned back to the window, staring out with his hands on his hips. Looking for... _what_ he didn't know. Walkers? More humans? Truth be told, it had been a long time since he had feared the former more than the latter.

Mostly he was just waiting for Daryl to return.

He ran a fingertip along the glass, tracing the swirling patterns that the ice had created. Judith had been squealing about how pretty they were, and Rick was content to let her believe that _something_ in this world was beautiful.

Maggie gave a brief nod to the jar that was sitting on the table behind them, a third full of the moonshine that Rick had stolen – no, rightfully _taken_ – from the bootlegger that had threatened Michonne last month. 

"Daddy would say that you're drinking too much of that stuff, too, Rick."

Rick's jaw clenched. She was only trying to be helpful, but Rick didn't _want_ helpful. He wanted to do what the hell he wanted, he wanted to do whatever helped him get through the struggle of trying to keep his family alive. The rim of the jar was chipped, and he'd cut his top lip on it a couple of days ago, but what was another wound. 

This cabin they'd found must have been someone's beautiful vacation retreat once. Now it was their refuge, the closest thing to an actual home they had had in six months. This was their fourth 'home' since Alexandria - they never settled for long because of walkers, or people taking it from them, or just Rick's plain old paranoia after nightmares that had him waking with a gasp in the middle of the night with his clothes soaked through with pungent sweat and needing to tell Daryl _We have to leave, sorry but we have to_.

But this place, so far, it would do. It _had_ done. It had been coated in a layer of dust when they'd first arrived; the stash of canned goods in the kitchen cupboards that were thick with grime a good sign that not many had been in this area to loot. Not that Rick regarded it as looting. It was survival. They'd found the remains of what had once been a person on the bathroom floor, a Bible clutched in his (or her) hand. Daryl had made a 'pssh' noise as he'd stepped right over it to open the cabinets in search of potential medical supplies. He'd been more upset to find the empty chicken coop at the side of the house, tufts of chestnut brown feathers stuck in the wire and even two eggs still sitting amongst the damp, rotting hay. _There's some breakfast for you, Carl_ he'd said with a smirk. 

Carol and Maggie had cleaned and organised the cabin as best they could, pushing the old brown leather sofas against the walls so they would have a clear path if they ever needed to get out of there quickly. Carl's job was to gather wood to burn in the big stove each day, while Daryl and Rick would patrol outside, sometimes going hunting together if everything seemed quiet. It was about as peaceful an existence as they could dare to hope for, gathering together in the evenings around the stove, big blankets wrapped around themselves as they drank hot mugs of broth that they made from the boiled up bones and carcasses of whatever creature Daryl had managed to kill each day. 

Carl had taken one of the upstairs bedrooms, Maggie and Michonne the other. Carol had shared with the other women too, until pneumonia had taken her earlier in the winter. She'd asked for Michonne to put her down _Not Daryl, don't let him see, he's seen enough in his life_ , and at the end, had had a quiet acceptance of her fate. Rick had been glad that she'd gone because of a health problem that could have ended her life in the old days too, and not because of a bite or scratch – or a human. Daryl didn't talk about it. He'd disappeared for three days and returned with a black eye, bloodied knuckles, and a deer for them to eat. Rick would never ask what had happened during his time away; Daryl grieved silently and in private. 

Rick slept in what had been the downstairs office, using an old dark green sofa as a bed. The springs had long since gone in it, and his back ached as a consequence, but the room had space for Judith's crib, and he preferred to be downstairs while his family slept above, feeling that it would be easier for him to protect them this way. Daryl, officially, slept on the living room sofa, but there were nights when Rick would hear his door opening, and he would know it was Daryl coming to him. After Carol died, it happened more frequently; Rick pressing back into the sofa cushions as far as he could, making room so Daryl had space to lie down beside him. He'd wrap an arm around the other man so he wouldn't fall off the edge, and press kisses to his neck, his shoulder, the back of his head. Sometimes they'd fuck; sometimes they'd chat; sometimes they didn't do anything at all apart from lie together in an easy silence. On those nights, they'd tell one another that they would sleep in shifts, but in reality they both slept with one eye open, looking out for the other.

Sweat prickled at the back of Rick's neck at the relief of seeing Daryl finally appear from the treeline, a thick black woollen blanket wrapped around his shoulders and secured in place by a battered brown leather belt they had found in a drawer. His breath was a long white cloud in the frozen air as he trudged up the path, crossbow in one hand and a string of squirrels in the other. Rick noticed the flecks of snow in his dark hair and thought how much Daryl looked like a warrior returning home from battle.  
Rick walked outside to meet him, and Daryl made to swing the squirrels at his head.

"Wouldn't waste the damn meat on ya," he snarled, but there was a twinkle in his blue eyes, one that they all so rarely saw. That rarity, Rick liked to think, made it all the more special.

Daryl smoothed a hand down the side of Rick's arm as they retreated back into the cabin together.

"Three walkers, down by the lake," he began, accepting a bowl of pea soup from Michonne and handing her the rewards of his hunt. She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side. Daryl laughed and gave the squirrels to Carl instead, who immediately took them into the kitchen to skin and gut them. Daryl had learnt better than to automatically hand any food he had caught to Michonne.  _What am I, a little wifey who makes all the meals? What kind of hunter-gatherer shit is this?_ she had snapped at him the first time he had done it. It was a strange little domestic set-up they had here, the five of them and Judith. They took turns to cook, to be on watch, to head out into the woods - although more often than not, Daryl would swap his cooking shift for a hunting one. Maggie was by far the best at making their meagre rations taste halfway palatable, so yeah, it was strange - but it worked.

Michonne wiped the snow from off Daryl's shoulders as he explained what he'd seen through mouthfuls of steaming hot soup. He lifted the bowl to his lips to slurp down the remnants and then belched.

"You will truly be a shining example to Judith," Michonne commented sardonically.

He ignored her.

"Three?" Rick asked, and Daryl nodded, picking his crossbow back up.

"Yeah. Damnedest thing - two of them up to their waists in the water, but it's frozen solid so they're stuck there. Waving their arms at me like they're the catch of the day. The other's on the banks, lying there like a big popsicle. Going back out there to put them down."

Rick looked over at Michonne, and she nodded.

"Go." She held her wrist up and looked at an imaginary watch. "Make sure you kids are back in time for dinner, y'hear?"

Rick couldn't remember what it felt like to relax, but he was fairly sure that these trips into the woods with Daryl came the closest. It reminded him of being back at the prison, going off on a hunt, knowing that everyone was as secure inside the gates as they could be. The snow and ice was harsh and unforgiving, but it made the forest look ethereal, beautiful. His boots crunched in the snow, the only noise apart from the odd thump of snow falling from branches, or the scrabble of squirrel claws against tree trunks. Daryl's footsteps, as always, were silent.

They found the lake walkers exactly as Daryl had described.

"Popsicle first," he stated, and Rick nodded, stabbing through its icy skin and finding the walker just as soft and gore-filled as always beneath. 

"Expected it to be frozen through and shatter to pieces," he shrugged.

"Guess Frosty needed a couple more hours in the freezer," came Daryl's reply as he took a tentative step onto the surface of the lake. Rick's stomach plummeted, terrified that the ice would break and Daryl would fall in. Expecting the worst to happen was his default now, but Daryl quickly stuck his knife in both of the walkers skulls, and made his way back onto the bank.

"We should bring back some pine cones for Maggie," he suggested, taking his crossbow back from Rick. "She likes the smell."

Rick chewed on his bottom lip.

"You think she's okay?"

"Nope," Daryl sighed, as they began to walk back towards the cabin. "But she'll have to be, just like the rest of us. Glenn wouldn't want to her to just give up."

Rick bent down to pick up a pine cone and put it into his coat pocket. It was disconcertingly quiet, this endless winter – like some fucked up version of Narnia.

"Daryl?" he ventured. "You think it's over? We hardly see walkers now, and those we do, well, they're frozen, or slow. You think this is some sort of climate change, some way of nature taking control and dealing with the walkers in its own way, like Maggie said?"

Daryl didn't answer at first, handing Rick another cone and then quietly beginning to speak. He didn't need to raise his voice for Rick to hang onto his every word.

"You know, the Cherokees thought there'd come a time when everything seems to be ending, a time of great sorrow, before everything's reborn. Meant to be just for their people... who's to say they don't mean the whole fuckin' lot of us."

"How'd you know all this Daryl?" Rick asked, thinking back to a time long ago when he'd seen a white flower in a bottle in Dale's old RV. When he'd asked Carol where it came from, all she had said was that they all should give Daryl, that fuckin' pig-headed hillbilly, a proper chance. She'd said there was more to him, and how right she'd been.

"Had a teacher who used to give me books about Native American myths and folklore," Daryl explained. "Liked the Cherokee stuff, I guess, 'cause they were outsiders. Can relate I suppose. I never got to give that book back to her. Still feel guilty sometimes, you know? Merle threw it in the fire one day after he'd been drinking. Told me he was sick of seeing me with my nose stuck in a book."

_Asshole_ Rick thought. _Fuckin' asshole Merle_.

"Know what you're thinking," Daryl suddenly snapped, an irritated tone in his voice. "You're thinking Merle was an asshole for doing that to my book. But if I'd spent my days reading instead of going out hunting and fighting with him, where the fuck would I – would _we_ – be now, huh?"

"Don't make it right, Daryl."

"Whatever. Made sense that Merle didn't like me reading about it. He was always the cowboy when we were kids. Wanted me to be a cowboy too, but I begged him to get me a bow and arrow instead." He rolled his eyes at the way Rick was staring at him sadly. "Mention some shit about my childhood and I'll leave you lying there to turn into a popsicle too. C'mon, Grimes."


	2. Chapter Two

The people came on a Tuesday. Or at least, Maggie said it was a Tuesday. She tried to keep track of the days as best she could, and if anyone questioned her, she'd simply shrug and say hell, there was a one in seven chance of her being right. 

Rick had stopped caring what day, month or even year it was.

Daryl had heard the engine before anyone else did, about to head out into the woods to find a possum for their supper. Rick could pinpoint the exact moment the hunter had been aware that they were not alone - he'd watched from the window as Daryl had immediately lowered his crossbow and pulled down the hood of the old red and black checked winter coat that he'd taken to wearing, so that he could hear better.

His glance had flashed to Rick, because of course he had known that Rick was standing watching him, and he'd pointed towards the path that led to the cabin, his hands clad in ratty black fingerless gloves. Rick had come outside, his boots squelching as he negotiated the sludgy mixture of mud and ice. His hand fell to his Python while Daryl raised his crossbow again, his eyes stony, giving out a warning before the people were even close enough to see.

"Damn old Ford Dodge," Daryl murmured. "'70, '71 maybe. The hell they get something like that?"

"Looks no worse than most vehicles these days," Rick replied, an eyebrow raised as he watched the rusted sky-blue truck get closer. A man with jet-black, shoulder-length curly hair was driving, and there seemed to be a younger girl beside him. She had a purple bobble hat on, and Rick found himself being vaguely irritated by the bright, artificial colour the minute he laid eyes on it. Their truck began to slow to a halt, its worn tyres skidding slightly on the stones.

"Daryl... !"

"I see 'em, I see 'em."

There were seven others huddled together in the back of the truck, all men, all holding knives or guns. But they didn't have their weapons raised.

The driver and passenger doors opened and Rick's back teeth felt sore at the nails-down-blackboard rusty squeak of them.

"No closer," Daryl warned, taking a step forward. "Now tell us who you are and what you want."

Purple bobble hat held her arms up in compliance. She was only about 5 feet tall, and her cheeks were two pink spots because of the cold.

"I'm Shelley," she began, and Daryl felt surprised at how calm her voice was.

"Didn't ask for your name, don't care," he growled.

"Just trying to show that we haven't come to cause any trouble," the black-haired man said. His voice was gruff and he was wearing at least three days' worth of stubble. With his ripped blue jeans and scuffed biker jacket with long forgotten heavy metal band names painted on it, he looked like the kind of person Daryl might have hung out with before.

"I'm Dean, Shelley's older brother."  
　  
"Great, that's the introductions done. Now go." Rick's head cocked to the side as he spoke. The politeness of the new people bothered him; he still remembered Gareth and his calm, pleasant introductions as they'd first walked into Terminus. It wasn't natural these days to be so open. Friendliness wasn't to be trusted.

Shelley gave a sudden cough, and Rick winced. It came right from the depths of her lungs, and afterwards she held her fist to her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut with discomfort.

Maggie put her hands on her hips and her brow furrowed. She looked at Dean.

"Is she alright?"

Dean gave a brief shake of his head, and Shelley glared at him.

"She has asthma," he said.

Shelley punched his arm.

"I'm fine, okay? Stop trying to be my lord and protector for once."

Dean ducked away as she tried to hit him again, looking at Maggie with concern in his eyes.

"It's been months since we were able to find any inhalers. And this cold weather, it gets right into her chest. She had a bad attack about two weeks ago, and without medication... "

Rick felt Maggie's eyes on him. He tried not to meet her gaze as he knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Rick... "

"No," he replied firmly. "We don't know these people."

Maggie grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the doorway, where they wouldn't be overheard.

"They seem like decent folk," she implored. "Let them come in, even for half an hour. With a basin of boiled water and a cloth, it could help her chest, it could... "

"She's right," Michonne's voice came from behind them, authoritive and decisive as ever. "They don't give me bad vibes, Rick. And we have to start trusting people sometimes. We _have_ to."

Rick called Daryl's name, and the archer knew purely from the tone of the other man's voice to give a nod of agreement.

"You can come in for half an hour, just until she feels better. Then you go. You go and don't ever come back here, you hear me?"

"Thanks man," Dean smiled, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small metal tin. Rolling tobacco and cigarette papers. "I don't have anything to give you to say thanks, but you're welcome to have one of these, if you like."

Daryl gave a curt nod, and once inside, Dean rolled him a cigarette quickly and expertly. Maggie helped Shelley duck her head underneath an old towel, inhaling steam from a basin of hot water. Maggie rubbed her back gently. 

"Fifteen minutes of this should help her a lot."

"Let's go and smoke these in that case," Dean suggested, and Daryl followed him outside. Rick watched them go, suddenly wishing desperately that he could join their little smoking gang. Over the noise of Maggie and Michonne talking softly to Shelley, he could hear murmurings from outside, and the odd dry laugh. What the fuck?

He folded his arms and lounged back in one of the kitchen chairs, staring at Dean as he and Daryl returned. The man didn't seem to notice, or care, and it irked Rick.

"We need to talk," Daryl stated, and Rick's blood ran cold.

*

They fought. Fought so long and so hard that Maggie and Michonne began to fear that they would come to blows; the passion and tension between the two of them was such that there always seemed to be a possibility of either happening – constantly hovering between either fighting or fucking. Thankfully for them and everyone else, it was usually the latter.

Dean, Shelley and the people they had come with stayed in their truck as Daryl told Rick that he was leaving for a while. New York, he said. Dean had told him how they'd met an elderly man down in Charlotte who'd told tales of a cure created by some biopharmaceutical company. All hush hush, he'd said. They'd tested on the elderly, the infirm, premature babies. People who were going to die soon anyway. He'd spoken of inoculations and electroconvulsive therapies, carried out by scientists who'd been holed up in Manhattan since the beginning of the outbreak. Rick had long since forgotten Doctor Jenner's face, but he remembered a mention of a possible cure that the French had discovered. 

"So what?" Rick drawled. "You're going to have yourself a road trip to the Big Apple and find this cure that may or may not exist? Daryl, do you have any idea how long it takes to get to New York? Even before the turn, it took over four hours." _And before all this you'd not gone past the state line so how the fuck are you going to make it there?_ Rick wanted to hiss, but despite his anger, he would never wound Daryl that way.

"So the old guy died, and didn't turn," Daryl spat, jabbing his index finger towards Rick's face. "They checked his arms afterwards, and he was covered – fucking _covered_ – in needle marks. Dean said that word about it's startin' to spread further down South; that people are startin' to travel North to see if this is just bullshit or not. They found that truck three weeks ago and are pickin' up folks who want to go along the way."

"You're not going," Rick bunched his hands into fists.

"The hell do you think you are?" Daryl's face contorted with rage. "I'll go if I damn well please. I _am_ goin'. You might be too fuckin' scared to go more than five miles from this cabin these days, but I'm goin' to try. This ain't your call, Rick."

"Why do you have to go? Do you get a buzz from the danger? Can't you just be?" Rick asked, exasperated. "How do we know they're good people?"

"There aren't any good people, man. Everyone's done _somethin'_. You think people who met us now, who heard what we'd done, would think we were good people?"

Rick's face began to feel tight from the memory of Joe's blood being caked on his skin. He didn't want to face the fact that Daryl was right in what he said, but it was true. He placed both hands on the gable wall of the house, giving a long resigned sigh. Daryl would do what he wanted, especially when it came to trying to help people, and while it was the thing that Rick loved more than anything about him, at that moment it was what he hated the most.

Rick frightened Daryl sometimes. Not in the things he said or did, but in the way he had relied upon Daryl throughout the years. Daryl had never had anyone put so much faith in him that way before, and the thought of fucking it up was terrifying. He wasn't used to the pressure of trying not to let someone down. He didn't need Rick to validate his existence, had never needed no-one, but _he_ was needed - and somehow that was scarier.

The noise of Judith giggling came from inside the cabin, and Daryl nodded his head in her direction.

"Gotta try, man. For her. For Carl."

*

They sent Shelley, Dean and their crew away, telling them to come back the next morning. They'd been holing up in some nearby barn, and while Rick was beginning to accept that they might be vaguely genuine, he certainly wasn't about to let them sleep under his roof.

Maggie and Michonne had long since retreated to bed, Michonne bringing Judith into the room with the two of them, and telling Carl that he might want to have an early night as well. Rick mentally told himself to thank her for it later.

He and Daryl stood in the dark kitchen, Daryl about to head outside for a last cigarette before he threw himself down onto the couch in the living room. The air was heavy with words not spoken and unbearable tension, like a room filled with gas that would explode if there was the spark of a harsh word. Rick could see the soft rise and fall of Daryl's chest as he leant against the worktop, as if he was waiting for something. Rick was more than happy to end his wait.

"Will you... ?"

Daryl's teeth sunk into his bottom lip and his right shoulder jerked upward momentarily. His teeth glinted in the dim light as he answered.

"I 'unno."

"I just, before you go, I want... "

Daryl's forehead creased as he scowled.

"I ain't sayin' yes and I ain't sayin' no."

Often, it made Rick angry that Daryl equated family with being hurt. He wondered if that explained Daryl's reluctance to come to him. Rick needed that last touch, that last kiss, that last... But Daryl was more the type to walk away without saying a single word. _Ain't gonna do any of that sentimental shit, okay? This ain't a damn movie and you ain't the man of my dreams, Grimes._  
　  
But Daryl _did_ come to him. He slid on top of Rick on that horrible green velvet sofa, and it had been long, so long, too long since they'd last... and Daryl licked a long, wet stripe along the inside of Rick's elbow, and Rick was sobbing out _Oh Daryl_  and then he gruffly offered Rick his fingers,  _Get 'em good and wet_ , and Rick sucked them in, soddened them, and then he felt them lower, easing in slowly and then pushing, stretching, pounding until he was begging  _Oh please fuck me, just fuck me, Daryl, Jesus, do it now._  
　  
Later, when their breathing returned to normal and they'd stretched out all the cramps that the sofa, and their age, and their years of fighting and killing and existing had caused, Rick fucked Daryl smooth and slow and Daryl arched off the pillows, coming all over his belly without Rick even so much as placing a fingertip on his cock.

*

Daryl left Carl the crossbow. The crew were heavily armed with guns and somehow he felt like his people would be safer, more secure, if he left it behind with him. _Ain't used it in three weeks, he shrugged at Rick. Besides, the kid is good at it. Way better than you've ever been._

He disappeared off in the back of the truck and Rick watched him go, Michonne's hand on his shoulder by way of comfort. He knew that both she and Maggie would cry privately later. He would try not to. There was wood to chop and food to hunt and all manner of tasks that he would do to keep his mind off Daryl. Not that any of them would work.

Rick knew that Daryl communicated through touch and actions rather through words, but it didn't make his earlier refusal to say the word goodbye any easier.

"Maybe you could get letters sent to us, let us know how you're doing," _And that you are still alive_ , he didn't say, but they both knew he was thinking it.

"I don't think they have the damn Pony Express, Rick," the archer replied snarkily, but he squeezed his eyes shut quickly, the way he did when he was nervous or when someone was trying to get too close.

"Maybe you're right to go, Daryl. To try to help people. Atone for some of the shit I have done."

"Rick... "

With the others watching, and the truck revving its engine, eager to get going, all Rick could do was place a hand on Daryl's arm, giving it a brief squeeze. Their eyes met and the look in Rick's was too much for Daryl to bear. He hadn't seen the other man look so haunted and broken since that day long ago when he had left him by the side of the road to go off with Merle. Their frozen breath mingled in the air in the space between their mouths, and it was as close as they would get to a goodbye kiss.

Rick murmured into his ear.

"Daryl, you know I... "

"I know."

Rick ground the heel of his boot into the muddy ground anxiously.

"Don't expect you to say it back, or even feel the same... I just needed you to know before... "

"Never said that word in my life," Daryl interrupted, his cobalt eyes ablaze. "Never said a lot of words. Don't mean I don't know what they are. Don't mean they're not somethin' I feel."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_."


	3. Chapter Three

Maggie left the group not long after Daryl did. She and Michonne had met a young couple with a three year old son down by the lake one drizzly afternoon, and when they said they were going back to the countryside on the outskirts of Atlanta, to maybe try to find refuge in an abandoned farmhouse, the lure of finding somewhere like her childhood home had proven too much for her. Or at least, that's what she said. Rick felt deep in his bones that some part of her couldn't bear to look at him, at any of them, because they all reminded her of Glenn. He missed Maggie, but the gnawing ache of guilt deep inside him was much worse than any sense of loss, because he knew that her departure had in no way impacted him the way that Daryl's had. 

When he and Michonne sat together on the sofa every evening, Carl sometimes in the middle holding Judith, Rick could imagine that perhaps Maggie had felt like an outsider. They were a fucked-up family unit. Man, woman, fucking 2.4 children. Daryl had never spoken much at night anyway, but Rick missed the soothing noise of him cleaning his crossbow, the click of the front door as he came back inside from a smoke, and the odd little grunts of laughter he would sometimes give if Carl and Michonne had been good-naturedly arguing.

Michonne always went to bed first. Before the turn Rick had been able to sleep through any noise, and anywhere. Now, he preferred to stay awake as long as possible. Michonne told him that it wasn't healthy, that their lives were peaceful compared to some of the times they had had, and that they should make the most of having a comfortable bed to sleep in while they could. Rick thought about the sofa he normally chose as his bed, and wondered if she was insinuating something now that she had a bedroom entirely to herself.

"I love you Michonne," he blurted out to her one night, when Carl and Judith were washing up and she was attempting to badly darn a pair of socks that were now more holes than material. He wasn't sure who had been worse at such menial household tasks – her or Lori.

"I love you too, Rick," she smiled, before tutting with frustration and throwing the sock across the room. 

Rick rested his head against the sofa and grabbed her little finger.

"D'you ever wonder what might have been if we had... " He shook his head when her eyes went wide with shock. "That wasn't an invitation," he said hurriedly. 

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if he was insane.

"I'd have ended up _killing_ you, Rick. Look you're a good lay with a nice ass. Let's leave it like that."

Rick felt the laughter rise from the very pit of his stomach, an unfamilar sensation. And a little bit of smugness, if he was being honest. Lori sure as hell had never been so complimentary.

"You know you're the only other person who Daryl was okay with. He loves you, you know."

"I know. I love him too. And he'll come back, he always does."

Rick was too scared to agree with her. Optimism frightened him. He felt like it made him soft, made him ill-prepared for the harsh realities of this world they now inhabited. A month had already passed since Daryl had left. 

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, wondering. _Wondering_. About weeks on the road searching for the Governor; little in-jokes from their time away together. Jibes about fleas and snoring and toilet habits.

"You know, if you and he had ever... I would have been alright about it."

Michonne clutched her stomach and rolled back against the sofa.

"Pfft! As if. I like a little pillow talk, you know that. Not going to get that from Daryl Dixon." She was laughing so hard that she placed a hand on Rick's upper thigh to steady herself, and then he felt her smoothing her hand along the rough denim of his black jeans. She looked up at him, a question in her large eyes. "I know you said it wasn't an invitation, but you know you can come up tonight if you're feeling lonely without him... "

"I don't know if I could, Michonne. I don't know if it would be fair on you."

Michonne raked her fingernails across Rick's scalp and he gave a small groan of appreciation, leaning into her touch. 

"Well, just don't feel you have to ask if you ever want to. You're not the only person who can get lonely."

 

*

_He looks like the kind of person who would kill you_ , Dean had whispered on the first day he and Shelley had spent in Daryl's surly company.

_Yeah, and he also looks like the kind of person who could come in and save your useless ass_ was his sister's reply.

_Okay – 'cause it's that that's making you want to bring him along, and not his biceps. Sure._

Shelley watched the redneck. He didn't speak to them much, he gulped his food, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his black denim shirt, and rifled through the pockets of each dead one. _Cigarettes_ he'd grunted once when she'd raised an eyebrow, then scowled as he found nothing but a set of house keys and a quarter. She wondered if he was superstitious, such was his habit of pocketing random items he found – when they spent the night in a church, he picked up a shard of glass that had come from a stained glass window that someone had clearly taken to with a hammer or axe. On another day, she had caught him removing a button from the night-dress of a female walker that they found still lying beneath bedsheets in what had been her home. He knew he'd been spotted that time. _I ain't no freak or thief, you hear?_ he had thundered.

They went from place to place on the journey to New York, finding shelter when they could. Abandoned grocery stores, school halls, even a pet shop once - although Daryl had refused to sleep in it once he had seen the skeletal remains of the puppies that had been kept there. He'd made the excuse that night that it was better for all their safety if he stood guard outside. Shelley had made sure everyone else was asleep on the floor before wrapping a blanket around herself and joining him outside.

The street was deserted aside from the bodies of a few walkers that already been put down. Daryl was leaning against the wall, twirling something over between his thumb and index finger, pressing it to his lips once and closing his eyes. He flinched as Shelley approached, shoving whatever he had had into his back pocket. All she had seen was a flash of blue before Daryl's eyebrows knitted together and he scowled.

"You should be sleepin'."

"Can't," Shelley shrugged, leaning towards him to whisper conspiratorally. "It's giving me the creeps in there too. You like animals?"

"Good source of food," Daryl snapped back, but his face softened and he answered grudgingly. "Always liked dogs. Honest. Know where you are with them. No bullshit."

She smiled, and he gave a nod back, which she took as good enough.

"Dean thinks we should get to the outskirts of the city by this time tomorrow," she said, her teeth chattering.

"Best get back inside, then, get some sleep," Daryl replied. He liked the girl, but he had no interest in chatting to her. He just wanted to get to New York, see what was what and then start making his way back home again, with or without the rest of them. They'd already taken at least three weeks longer than they had thought thanks to avoiding the first herd he'd seen in at least two months. 

One of the men with them said he'd worked in Manhattan the decade before, and knew where the biopharmaceutical building was. He didn't reveal what his job had been, and nobody asked. Used to be, people would define themselves by what their occupation was before the turn. A cop, a lawyer, a redneck asshole. Now, people were so far removed from what they used to be that they didn't speak about it anymore. Nowadays the questions were more  _Is it just you_ or _do you have people_  or  _Where have you been sleeping_  or  _What about the place you came from, there many bad folks there?_  Some people didn't talk at all now. That suited Daryl just fine. He and Rick had never needed many words to understand each other, and just the thought of hearing Rick's whistle or seeing him nod silently suddenly filled him full of a tired ache for the closest thing they'd had to a home for many years. 

In the end, New York didn't work out too well. When did it ever.

It was always fire with Daryl. The CDC, the barn, Terminus, here. The group stood watching from the bottom of the block as flames from the top of the biopharmaceutical building licked the sky. The smoke snaked its way around them, thick and cloying, and Shelley began to cough uncontrollably. Daryl lifted her up easily - she was no heavier than a child - and carried her to the next block. They could hear screaming as people ran out of the building, some still on fire, some collapsing as they clawed and batted at themselves to try to extinguish the flames in vain. Most had white coats on, a sign that the rumours of people working on a cure had in fact been true. 

Daryl looked up as he heard the  _thud thud thud_  of bodies hitting the ground, and he remembered from the news reports of a lifetime ago that it was the sound of folk jumping from windows on the top floor. Bodies splattered against the sticky ground, joining the charred corpses that already lay there. He had witnessed some scenes of horror since the turn, but they had been nothing compared to this. This was real end of the world shit; the sky a purple bruise and the roar of concrete and metal as it crumbled and twisted in the heat.

"Wait here." He gently put Shelley onto the ground, raised his crossbow, and paced back towards the building, wishing he was able to wrap his red bandana around the lower half of his face so the noxious smoke wouldn't fill his lungs. Under his feet was blood, bits of brain, piles of ashes that had once been humans. The soles of his shoes stuck to the asphalt, and he felt bile rise in his stomach each time he heard the wet squelch as he pulled himself free of whatever body part he was standing on.

The bodies had stopped dropping, and anyone who had been running from the building was now dead or dying on the ground.  _Damn idiot_ , Daryl chastised himself. Damn idiot for going on this fool's errand. He'd never felt further away from home, not that he knew where the hell that was anymore, and the journey back to Rick seemed insurmountable.

"Help me," a voice nearby came weak and raspy. "Please."

Someone was slumped against the metal pole of what had been a traffic light at one point. Their face was covered in so much blood that Daryl couldn't tell at first whether it was a man or a woman.

"Please," they repeated, and Daryl knelt down beside them warily. He could tell now that it was a man, his white lab coat entirely soaked through with blood. He was clutching his stomach and making a gurgling noise. Gunshot, Daryl guessed.

"What the hell happened here?" Daryl demanded, not expecting much by way of an answer.

"Tests," he croaked. "The tests went wrong."

Daryl grabbed onto his shoulders, shaking him.

"You guys were working on a cure? That true?"

The doctor gave a nod, answering in breathless, laboured sentences.

"Didn't work on everyone. Some subjects died and stayed dead. Others, it was just the same - they came back. My lab partner thought he'd developed something stronger, a better vaccine, but the subject turned, bit him. He went crazy. _Nuts_. Knocked over our equipment and boom, place went up. We had guns but we were over-run by the infected. Got caught in the crossfire, got hit."

He took a gasp that was more of a death rattle than a breath, looking at Daryl with rheumy eyes.

"Wherever you came from, go back there. Or kill yourself now. We were the last ones. There is _no_ cure."

*  
　  
One of their group killed themselves when Daryl told them. Another two got into a fight and beat one another to death. Daryl had attempted to intervene but they'd threatened to smash his skull against the wall, so he'd backed away, deciding not to spare them the indignity of turning. They'd been assholes, anyway.

No-one could make a decision on what to do next, so Daryl made it for them, feeling renewed empathy for Rick and how the responsibility for decisions like that had always fallen on  _his_  shoulders.  _We go back down South_  he'd said, and no-one had disagreed.

The journey back down there was long, and grim. Food got scarcer and it got harder and harder to find cars to siphon gas from. Day after day, people left the group, or got killed. New people joined, only for the same thing to happen. Daryl didn't get attached to any of them. He thought of the crinkles at the side of Rick's eyes, and vowed never to make that mistake again.

Harry became part of their crew when they found him on sitting in the doorway of a gas station, sharing a bag of potato chips with an old German Shepherd, who promptly ran off as soon as he saw more people approaching.

"Guess he doesn't like barbecue flavor."

Daryl had eyed him warily, taking in his scuffed brown cowboy boots, blue denim shirt and thick sandy coloured hair.

"You alone?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Harry scratched his beard.

"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, brother, but people aren't great conversationalists anymore. Hell, my chat with the Littlest Hobo there was the most sense I've had out of anyone in months."

Daryl's mouth twitched up at the side and he turned to Shelley. She shrugged, uncaring. They'd lost Dean the previous month when they'd been trying to find shelter in an old barn. He'd flopped down onto a pile of straw, laughing about how it was the most comfortable bed he'd had in weeks, when the walker that had been underneath clamped its teeth on his shoulder. Daryl had guessed that the walker had been some poor bastard who'd been trying to find shelter there themselves, maybe injured, maybe bitten, almost certainly on the verge of death. Since Dean had gone, Shelley had cared less about being the one to make the decisions on who to bring along. 

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip. This guy looked like he'd be handy in a fight, and Daryl trusted someone who'd share some food with a dog about as much as he was willing to trust anyone. He didn't use Rick's three questions anymore - by this stage the people who hadn't killed the living far outnumbered those who hadn't. Everyone had done terrible things just to survive. Everyone.

_Why are you alone. Where are you going to. How did you get your last meal._

_Because I like it that way_ , Harry replied, quick as a flash. _I don't know where the fuck I'm going, you got any suggestions?_ He held the bag of chips over his mouth and emptied the remainder. _Guess you know the answer to your last question, don't you._

"Smart-ass bastard," Daryl muttered. He saw the knife hanging from Harry's belt, then realised the man was sitting on a long piece of dark metal. A fucking crowbar. Daryl nodded to himself. Okay. 

"Headin' back down to Georgia," he eventually said. "If you were wantin' to be with a group."

"Thought most people were trying to make it to New York."

"Yeah well, there's fuck all in New York. Be as well off in Georgia as anywhere else."

Harry gave a wide, shit-eating grin.

"Sounds like someone's a little homesick."

"Fuck you, man. Come if you want, I'm done talkin'."

Daryl followed Shelley into the front of the pick-up. He drove mostly, now. She'd sit in the passenger seat beside him, pale and skeletal and silent. Once, she'd placed a hand over his on the gearstick, looking up at him with hopeful, tear-filled eyes.

"Daryl... "

"That's not what we are, Shelley. Don't ask me for somethin' I can't give."

"Not even once? I just need... not to feel this."

"I prob'ly couldn't even if I wanted to."

Daryl wasn't stupid. He didn't like what he saw when he looked in the mirror, never had, had been told often enough by his daddy _Boy you is the fuckin' oddest thing I ever laid eyes on_. He remembered lying in bed as a boy, hearing the grunts and groans of his father and whatever skank he had taken up with that week. Waitresses, barmaids, hookers, methheads... He'd bang on the walls, hollering _Yer daddy fucks real good, ya hear that Daryl, ya fuckin' pussy_. And he'd listen to the women tell his daddy in hushed tones to shut up before cackling softly. Then the noises would begin again, and Daryl would press his hands to his ears, wishing they actually had some pillows he could hide his face under. Some of the women tried to mother him; felt sorry for the boy with those strange, strange eyes, but he'd push them away. He'd push everyone away. Because if he didn't he'd only be upset later when they disappeared again anyway.

He'd liked one of his daddy's girlfriends, a plump bleached blonde waitress from the local diner, but she'd caught him trying to steal a cigarette from her purse. She'd told his daddy and he'd gotten a beating. So had she, for bitching. And that was that.

Daryl remembered her holding him, pressing his young face into her big, fat breasts. And he remembered feeling smothered, uncomfortable. Merle would make crude comments afterwards about her 'big ass titties'. _Boy, I'd like to get my face between those little brother, didn't ya pop a boner sitting there. No, bet ya didn't. Bet ya wouldn't know what to do with it even if you had._


	4. Chapter Four

Shelley was killed just before Lexington. Another day, another gas station. They had been scoping the place out, trying to see if there were any walkers or humans around – and if not, if there was even anything else left to scavenge. Daryl had gone in first, Harry and Shelley just behind him. It was only the three of them now. Daryl had heard the screams as a crazed woman with long, stringy grey hair had appeared from behind the counter, hitting Shelley over the head with a lead pipe.

"Get the fuck out of here, get the fuck out of here, get the fuck out of here!" she'd shrieked, her face splattered with blood.

Harry and he took Shelley's delicate body out into the woods to bury her. Harry had given a short speech, but in reality they'd known little about her, save for the fact she loved purple, and dogs, and missed internet shopping and peanut butter more than anything. Daryl hadn't said a word, just stamped the mud down good and proper on her grave so no animals would dig it up again.

*

The two men took the back roads when they could, finding a red Hyundai hatchback parked in an overgrown clearing. Daryl preferred to drive on ahead when they saw other vehicles, believing that anything worth taking would have already been found by now. But it was a bitterly cold day, icicles hanging from the pine trees in the thick forest, and even in the truck their breath came out frozen.

"Maybe there are some blankets in the back of that," he wondered out loud, hitting the brakes and bringing them to a slow stop, careful not to skid.

Harry jumped out, and not for the first time Daryl wondered how the stupid bastard had survived this long. He never took account of his surroundings, never made sure whether there were walkers around first before he went into any unfamiliar buildings, or got out of the car. Daryl paused before joining him outside, eyes scouring the trees for signs of life. He swore under his breath as he heard Harry whooping. Asshole was going to get them both killed if he didn't learn to shut his mouth.

"Hoooo boy! Look what we have here!"

Daryl gripped onto his knife as he edged closer to the car. Harry was laughing and motioning for him to peer into the passenger side window.

"World's oldest profession keeps going even in a damn apocalypse!"

Daryl grimaced as Harry opened the door, and pressed his hand to his mouth and nose as the smell of rotting flesh hit them.

"Come on, man, let's nothing for us here."

The woman - or what  _had_  been a woman - was slumped over the driver's lap; his jeans unbuttoned and his hand on the back of her head.

"At least someone was getting some before they turned," Harry sneered. "What a way to go out, if I could choose, I'd... "

"Shut up," Daryl growled, seeing the large patch of sticky blood on the back of the woman's red hair and the mess of bone and brains where the man's head had once been. "They didn't _turn_."

"What are you taking about, Dixon?" Harry was rummaging in the glove compartment now, his hand resting on the woman's blue jean-clad thigh. Daryl's nose turned up in disgust at his disrespect.

"They weren't walkers, man. Can't you tell? Ain't you learnt yet to be observant? They were both shot while they were... doin' what they were doin'."

"Oh we _know_  what they were doing," Harry chuckled.

Daryl began to back away from the car. "We need to leave here. Whoever did this could come back."

Harry gave a long, low whistle through his teeth.

"Whoever did this wasn't  _observant_  either," he quipped. "Lookee what I found." He held up a bottle of whisky, just over three quarters full, swinging it in front of Daryl's face and grinning. "Guess the john needed a little Dutch courage before he could go through with it."

*

They got lit, of course they did. They were cold and tired, and the roads this late at night were covered in thin sheets of ice. Daryl didn't fancy ending his days in a car wreck in a ditch somewhere. They locked the truck doors, parking where they would be obscured by overhanging branches. Harry rambled on incessantly, but Daryl had grown up with Merle, and had long since learnt how to zone out when he wasn't interested in listening. He suddenly ached for Rick more than he ever had, remembering how it used to feel like they had held entire conversations without even opening their mouths.  _Lori said I didn't talk enough_ , Rick had told him on more than one occasion, and Daryl's response had always been the same.  _Never gotten why that's meant to be a bad thing_.

"Who was he?"

"What?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"Come on. You never talk about girls, never look anyone we see up and down. I mean, I know chicks nowadays aren't exactly supermodels, but a nice ass is a nice ass, even the skinny ones. Hell, even some walkers."

Daryl picked at the hole in the knee of his pants, as he sat with his feet hunched up against the dashboard. This stinking car smelt like gore and damp, and the air was stale and foul from the two of them sleeping in it. He flicked the Magic Tree that was hanging from the rear view mirror, its 'forest pine' scent long since gone. He'd found a half-empty pack of cigarettes in the car's footwell and lit one. Place might as well stink of smoke as well as all the rest.

"Don't mean there was a 'he'."

"Okay, okay," Harry opened the window a little, threw his cigarette stub out, and then drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You know, there ain't any gay or straight anymore, man. People just do what they have to do, not just to survive, but to... scratch an itch, you know? You gotta take what you can get. Don't matter to me whether its a man or a woman. "

_There's never been gay or straight for me anyway, Daryl felt like saying. I don't know what I am. Before Rick or after. Maybe neither. Maybe nothin'._

"You had someone before. That's why you're so eager to go back down South."

"He didn't have me and I didn't have him. We just were."

"He got a name, this guy?"

"Not one that you need to know. It don't matter." A burst of laughter came from the bottom of his stomach. "Craziest asshole I ever met."

Harry nodded.

"So - this ' _Crazy_ ' – do you think he's still alive?"

"If he's dead then no-one else stands a cat in hell's chance of survivin'."

Harry took Daryl's winsome grin as an invitation to ask more.

"So what does he look like?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"Come on, not even the colour of his eyes?"

"I can't remember the colour of his damn eyes. Fuckin' _drop_ it."

Daryl remembered another parked car on a different day. A hot, sticky day, it had been, and his shirt had clung uncomfortably to his damp skin. He'd never been rich or fortunate enough to drive anything with air-con, so he'd dealt with worse heat and humidity than there had been that day. Before, though, he hadn't had a man like Rick Grimes sitting beside him, calmly driving back to the prison after a successful run for baby formula. The air had been thick with _something_. Something that had been building for weeks, months, forever. Building with every look that had passed between them, every light touch of hands on stomachs, every brush against one another as they had passed in the dark hallways of the prison.

Daryl had never had the confidence to ask people about their lives, had always expected that they would tell him to mind his own business. He'd spent his entire life hiding who he was, what he felt, and so he expected everyone else to be the same. Until he'd met this group of priviliged, melodramatic people he came to regard as his family, he hadn't realised that most people loved to talk about themselves. Truth be told, he wasn't that interested in what people had done or been 'before', but the air in the car had been heavy with tension, and he'd been keenly aware of how quickly Rick's chest rose and fell; could smell the other man's sweat and see the damp patches on the underarms of his dark grey shirt.

"Why'd you decide to become a cop?" he'd asked, wincing at how croaky his voice was; how unlike it was for him to start a conversation like that. 

Rick had given a grin of surprise, an eyebrow raised as he'd looked over at Daryl. Daryl had already known the answer; had had to stop himself from mouthing along with Rick as he'd answered.

"Because my dad was one."

Daryl had nodded, thinking about how, if all this hadn't gone down, they'd have probably _both_ ended up like their fathers. Only difference was - Rick  _wanted_  to be like his.  
   
"He proud of ya?"

Rick had taken a deep breath, then begun to nod slowly. Daryl had seen how his knuckles whitened a little; a tell-tale sign that some memory or thought was making him grip onto the steering wheel more tightly than before.

"I guess so. I mean, it's not something he would've said – not out loud, not to me. But yeah, he was proud. About the job anyway."

"Walker," Daryl had pointed, as he watched a woman with long black hair stagger out of the woods, her arms streaked with blood and her dress torn.

Rick had swerved in time, exhaling and running a hand through his hair. He made to speak but then seemed to think better of it. Daryl chewed on a thumbnail, giving Rick time.

"He never liked Lori," Rick had blurted out. "I never told anyone that before. He didn't like her at all. From the minute I brought her home after school to do homework, to the last time we saw him. She didn't like that I became a cop, wanted more for me... well, for us. For _her_."

He'd punched the steering wheel lightly.

"Fuck. I shouldn't be speaking about her that way. She's gone, and I loved her, and what the fuck does it matter now if she wanted a bigger house, more money, a husband that had proper vacation time."

"She was a good woman, Rick," Daryl remembered telling him. "I saw her take care of Carl before you came to the quarry. She was strong."

Rick had pursed his lips, nodding. He felt like he could speak to Daryl about Lori. He wasn't sure why – the man had never mentioned anyone he'd known before the turn. No wives or girlfriends; not even any friends.

"What about you?" he'd ventured. "You have a girl before the world went to shit?"

Daryl had shifted in his seat, his hand immediately going up to his mouth so he could bite his fingernails.

"Nuh-uh." He'd looked down at his knees, his cheeks reddening. 

Rick had remembered the hot-tempered man he had first met and couldn't reconcile it with the shy, awkward person sitting beside him.

"Sorry if it was wrong to ask that, Daryl. I mean, I've figured that things for you maybe weren't always easy before and... "

Rick had braced himself for a harsh retort, a snarl telling him to mind his own goddamn business, but none came. Instead, Daryl shrugged, staring out of the passenger side window as he'd spoken lowly, his face scarlet, shaking his head so that his hair fell over his face and obscured his eyes.

"Wasn't many folks of any kind around before, never mind someone like that. Hard to miss things you never had in the first place."

"Yeah, I hear  _that_ ," Rick had told him, trying to find something to say that made him seem relatable to the other man. "I mean, me and Lori, even before the coma... we didn't... much, you know? That was up to her, not me." He'd looked up at the sky; it was getting dark, but no less humid. "So I guess, as much as I miss  _that_ now, I was missing it before anyway."

Rick had felt his jeans damply clinging to him, the back of his shirt soaked through with sweat and sticking to his car seat. Daryl hadn't said a single word, but Rick was hyper-aware of how the hunter's breathing had quickened, how his hand had moved from his lap towards Rick's thigh. Was this it? The point where all this simmering tension would boil over? The little looks, the touches, the hours and days in the woods together when neither of them would speak but knew from the differing cadences of each other's breathing what to do next.

Rick looked over at him. Daryl's eyes had been staring straight ahead but there were beads of sweat on his top lip.

"Daryl... " Rick had breathed. The tips of the other man's fingers had rested against the side of his right thigh, and his thumb circled a teasing pattern against the denim. Round and round and round, and Rick closed his eyes, and imagined that thumb circling the head of his cock.

"Can help you," Daryl had grunted. "If that's what you want."

"I can't expect you to... " Rick gulped, but he'd palmed himself over his jeans, feeling the thickness as he'd begun to harden.

Deftly, Daryl had unbuttoned him and lowered Rick's zipper, pulling his dick out and smoothing his hand up and down. His palms had been calloused and Rick was uncomfortable, sore, as Daryl wrapped his fingers around him more tightly and jerked his fist up and down. Rick's hands fell to the side, and he took several deep breaths, his arousal-reddened lips rounded into a 'O' shape. Daryl's breathing was harsh and ragged, giving tiny grunts of effort.

"Gotta stop," Rick had panted. "Too dry."

Daryl had barely skipped a beat as he spat into his palm twice, then wrapped it back around Rick. And this was better, easier, slicker. Rick had allowed his hips to give a little jolt upward, thrusting into Daryl's grip.

"Good?" he'd asked roughly, and Rick had kept nodding.

"Yeah good, just keep going, keep doing that Daryl... "

When Daryl had wiped the pre-come from the tip of Rick's cock and slicked him up more with it, Rick forgot to feel embarrassed; forgot to think about what they would do once this was over; forgot that this was his friend, his right-hand man who was doing this to him. All he could think about was the tendons flexing in Daryl's forearm as he pumped, his heavy breathing as he allowed his fingers to drift across Rick's balls now and then, his final squeeze of the head of the other man's dick as Rick gasped and spurted into his hand and over the car seat.

When Rick was done, Daryl threw his red cloth at him, his eyes staring straight ahead as they had been the whole time.

"You want me to... " Rick asked, his voice croaky, wasted.

"Nah I'm good," Daryl had replied, clenching his teeth a little at how his reply had sounded more snappish than he'd intended.

Rick's orgasm, in the grand scheme of things, had been weak, but he'd felt everything else around him was seismic. As he'd sat there in the driver's seat, white-knuckled hands clutching each side, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than even the walkers made it, he'd imagined that if he looked outside he would see the earth cracking open, deep chasms forming in the rocky ground; he and Daryl on their own separate tectonic plate with the rest of the world shaken to hell.

They had regained their breath and composure, Daryl wiping his hands on his thighs before lighting a cigarette. Rick almost found himself offering his thanks, but then thought better of it. The weirdest thing was that he didn't _feel_ weird. Not really, maybe not like he should. The odd tension that had previously been so heavy that he could barely breathe had dissipated, and now he felt like the world had been righted, somehow. He had momentarily pressed the accelerator, then changed his mind.

"You know what I miss, Daryl? Having barbecues on a Friday night with the guys from work. Few beers, some good steaks, music... You ever do anything like that?"

Daryl had given a snort, his mouth turned up at the side in puzzled amusement at how Rick was continuing their previous conversation as if nothing had happened.

"Nope. Well, not unless you count cookin' up whatever we'd gotten on our hunt that day and sinkin' whatever cheap, shitty booze we could get our hands on."

"Doesn't sound too different when it comes down to it."

"Hmm, maybe. But you wouldna' been invited to mine and I sure as hell wouldna' been invited to yours."

"Oh I don't know," Rick had begun, mischief in his voice. "Maybe squirrel burgers would have gone down a treat with my friends."

Daryl had glanced at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously before he saw that Rick was smirking.

"Pfft. I doubt your fancy-ass friends would have wanted anythin' to do with my kind. Or want to lie in the back of my truck just gettin' lit."

"You used to do that?"

"Yeah, I guess. 6 pack of beer, maybe a couple of packs, lyin' in the back of the truck, lookin' up at the stars."

"Alone?"

Daryl had shrugged.

"If I wanted peace and quiet, yeah. Not much of that when Merle was with me."

Rick had exhaled. "God that sounds good. Just to be laying back, looking at the sky. Could never see that many stars where we lived - too many street lights blocking out the natural light."

"Well," Daryl had said, turning to look out the back window, then leaning over Rick to glance out of the driver's side. "Ain't no street lights to worry about no more. Reckon it's pretty clear out there tonight, and there don't seem to be any more walkers about."

Rick had rubbed the back of his head, laughing in slight disbelief as they both got out of the car and leant against the bonnet together. They'd looked up at the star-filled sky, and it was the most relaxed Rick had felt in months. 

"All this happening in the world, and up there, it's still the same," he had mused. "Kinda comforting."

Daryl hadn't replied.

"Thank you," Rick had found himself blurting out.

"'S okay. I got your back. It's nothin'."

Rick had shaken his head, turning his eyes away from the constellations and looking at something he found no less other-wordly.

"You're wrong, Daryl. It's definitely _something_."


	5. Chapter Five

"Anybody out there today?" Michonne stretched her long legs out and slunk back into the sofa. She nodded towards the stove. "There's a pot boiling, if you want a hot drink."

Rick wrinkled his nose, shuddering at the thought of re-using one of the herbal teabags they have found when they had first come to the cabin. He doubted they had tasted any better fresh, and smacked his lips as he thought longingly of a strong espresso.

"Heard a truck pass by - maybe about half a mile out. Didn't see it, but it sounded big."

_Bigger than a Ford pick-up_  he wanted to say, but he didn't need to; they were both thinking the same thing.  _Not Daryl_.

Michonne took in Rick's gaunt, hang-dog appearance and stood up. She placed a hand around his, feeling the coldness of his fingers. Every day Rick would go out with his gun and head down the path and into the forests, searching for walkers, for people, for Daryl. He'd return, sometimes exhausted, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes angry. Always sad that he had come back alone.

"You know, you don't need to go out there as much, Rick."

"I do."

"No, you don't," Michonne told him firmly. "It's quiet here. Like you said, the truck passed by." She bit her lip. "Rick... he knows where we are, if he's coming back."

"He's coming _back_ ," Rick snapped.

Michonne placed a hand on his shoulder before moving it up to caress the side of his stubbled face. Rick turned his head to meet her touch, his eyes closed, breathing in the scent of her.

"It's been a long time, Rick," she soothed. "Six months? Nine? If anyone is going to get back, it's Daryl, but... "

Rick gave a nod.

"I know, I know. But we can't lose faith, we can't ever leave here in case he comes back to look for us."

"We're not going anywhere, Rick. Carl and Judith are safe here, and we're warm and fed – as much as we can be."

She slid her hands underneath Rick's thick coat, helping him shrug it off. His dark checked shirt was threadbare at the elbows and collar, and he gave a shiver.

"Carl's gone to get firewood now," Michonne reassured him. "It will be warm soon."

Rick clasped Michonne's hands in his, easing them under his shirt and pressing them against his bare skin. She smelt of woodsmoke and the cheap soap they had rationed for washing, and she was warm and lithe and the most comforting of presences. She kept him sane, she kept him _alive_ too.

"I fucking _miss_ him," Rick whispered. Michonne's thumb brushed against one of his nipples, and he shut his eyes, sighing. "I miss him and I want him to come back to us."

Her hands moved deftly from his torso down to his belt, and then he was being unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped. Michonne rubbed him over his underwear, Rick telling her _You never judged us, you understood what we were, Michonne_ and she gave an _Mmm_ of agreement, leaning in and flicking her tongue against the hollow of his neck as she felt the outline of the growing thickness of him in her hand.

"Judith's asleep upstairs," Michonne murmured, and Rick wrapped his hands around the curve of her ass, pressing his groin against hers. He was tired, and cold, and lonely, and Michonne was _there_ , and he loved her.

Upstairs, they fell onto the faded yellow and white patchwork quilt on the top of Michonne's bed, Rick sliding into her easily, gratefully. She wrapped a leg around his back, begging him to go harder, rougher, and the thought that she had needs too momentarily flashed through Rick's mind before his thoughts turned once more to all the times he was between Daryl's legs, fucking him, biting down onto his wide shoulders, sucking sharp collarbones. 

Michonne held his head in her hands, telling him to stay with her. He gasped out an apology and raised himself onto his knees, pulling her closer towards him so she could grip onto his waist with her legs. Rick licked his thumb and began to rub her clit as he pounded into her. Michonne was loud, screaming to God, screaming that she was coming, screaming Rick's name. Rick felt overwhelmed by her smell and her loud sighs, so different from Daryl's intense silence, not to mention Lori's barely audible little gasps when he had attempted to fuck her like this.

"Oh _God_ ," he exhaled as he came, falling on top of Michonne's dark, sleek body. She held his head to her breasts, stroking the back of his head as if he was a child to be comforted.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Michonne."

They rolled over onto their sides, facing each other as they both raised themselves onto their elbows. She ran her fingers through Rick's dark chest hair, her skin still glistening from her climax.

"Sorry? For what?"

"I'm a little rusty. It's been a while since... it was someone who wasn't him."

Michonne rolled her eyes.

"This is no time to be getting bashful."

She turned onto her back, grabbing Rick's hand and placing it between her legs. Rick gave a groan, bringing her to another quick orgasm with his fingers, and then she had him clasped in her arms, pulling the quilt over the two of them, telling him to go to sleep for a while. He rested his head on her chest, letting himself drift off to the dim place between wakefulness and sleep; the state he liked best, because he could imagine then that he was back in a chilly prison bunk underneath coarse blankets that smelt like Daryl.

Rick loved to kiss, had never seen it as just a precursor to the good part. Shane always said it was something he liked to get over and done with as quickly as possible on the way to getting his dick wet. But Rick loved that pressing of mouths together; hot and hungry, wet and passionate. Whether it led to sex or not, it had always made him feel wanted, comforted, _at home_. It had taken a while before Daryl would kiss him, a long while. He'd back away each time Rick leant towards him, his eyes fluttering shut as he flinched. Rick had quickly learnt that for Daryl, kissing was much more intimate than a hand wrapped around a cock or a hasty blow job in the darkness of a cell. 

They'd been lying on Rick's bunk, sleepy after a long afternoon of dealing with the walker herd at the fences; their bellies full after two bowls each of the squirrel stew Carol had managed to make taste pretty damn wonderful with some paprika and garlic salt. They were as damn near close to content as they could be, or at least Rick was. It was always hard to tell with Daryl either way.

Daryl lay beside Rick, his head on Rick's chest and his right leg between the policeman's thighs. Rick was running a fingertip down his tanned arm, marvelling at the strength and size of the other man's forearms. 

"Mmm," Daryl moaned, seemingly involuntarily at the way he immediately blushed.

"That good?"

"Yeah. Tired."

Rick closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of Daryl's steady breathing and the warmth and heaviness of the archer's body against his.

"Wish I could kiss you," he found himself saying. The moment felt too perfect not to do it.

Daryl's breathing suddenly stopped, and he lifted his head. Slowly, he sat up, and Rick prepared himself for Daryl retreating wordlessly back to his spot on the perch. Instead, the archer rolled himself over onto his stomach, resting his chin on the centre of Rick's chest, reaching up to trace the outline of Rick's plump lips with his index finger. Rick held in a smirk, realising how touch was how Daryl learnt about _anything_ new, whether it was an old prison, a motorbike, a new weapon.

"Yeah, bet all the girls wanted to kiss Rick Grimes, back in the day."

Rick's eyes widened, and he laughed, shaking his head.

"Only the ones that Shane had turned down, believe me. But come on, you must have... there must have been _some_ girls."

It pleased Rick that they had come this far, to a place where he could comfortably ask Daryl about shit like that without the fear of getting a right hook to the jaw. Daryl's body still tensed when his past was brought up; Rick could sense how his back immediately arched like he was a frightened cat about to attack with its claws. But he also knew that he had gained a certain level of trust with Daryl – whatever was said in that cell went no further.

"Yeah," he replied, after what seemed like a long time. Even the candlelight couldn't hide the discomfort in Daryl's expression. He moved upwards on the bunk so that he was lying with his head on the pillow, staring straight up at the ceiling as he spoke. The less eye contact Daryl gave, the more likely it was that he would speak. "Yeah, there was. First one kissed me, I was about nine, ten. I wiped my mouth after and everyone laughed. She never spoke to me again. She thought it was all about her, but it weren't. Second one was a blonde girl – Kimberley – real prom queen type. This was in high school. Thought this was my chance to show everyone. She leaned in, I kissed her, she started screamin' and laughin'. Ran away. Said it was a dare and why would she want to kiss Daryl Dixon, did I think she wanted to catch a disease or somethin'."

"Jesus, Daryl." Rick tried to keep the pity from his voice, but it was tough.

"Eh," Daryl shrugged, wiping his bottom lip as if he was re-living the memory. "I didn't enjoy it anyway. She smelt funny, like vanilla. Made me feel sick. Tasted like fuckin' Hubba Bubba, too."

"I don't taste like that," Rick murmured, a hopeful tone in his voice. "And I sure as hell don't smell like vanilla."

"Nope," Daryl nodded. "Guess you don't."

And then suddenly Daryl was leaning across, pressing his thumb to Rick's bottom lip. Rick allowed his tongue to dart out and flick against the digit briefly.

"You can, you know," he breathed. "If you want to, Daryl."

Daryl placed a hand to the side of Rick's face, pressing his fingertips against the other man's strong jawline, seemingly fascinated at the scratch of stubble against his touch. Rick had always instinctively shut his eyes when anyone had leant in to kiss him in the past, but this time he kept them open, finding that Daryl did too, those narrow cat-eyes about as wide as he had ever seen them. Daryl was resting himself on his elbow against Rick's chest now, their legs entangled. He edged his face closer, and Rick could smell traces of garlic, but it was intoxicating, being so close to Daryl that he could smell his breath, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest and how suddenly it stopped as Daryl finally pressed his mouth to Rick's.

Rick lay back, prone; scared to place a hand on Daryl's back in case the touch scared him away or made him stop - and Rick knew he _never_ wanted this to stop. Daryl moved his thin lips, sighing into Rick's mouth, and when he dared to press his tongue inward, sliding it against Rick's, they both finally closed their eyes, panting against one another; Daryl's fingers twining themselves in Rick's curls and his nose brushing against the other man's.

Lori had been cool, peppermint. But Daryl's mouth was warm - the earthy taste of the twigs he used to clean his teeth and the lingering tang of the tobacco that he so rarely got to enjoy. Rick grabbed his hips and encouraged Daryl to thrust against him as he felt Daryl bite down softly on his bottom lip.

Daryl raised himself onto his knees so Rick could undo his fly, and then resumed kissing him as hands moved from faces to cocks, rubbing and sucking and licking each other until there were matching gasps and wetness everywhere; stomachs, blankets, hands. After they came, they kissed slowly and languidly, clothes still half undone and hair damp. Daryl swiped his tongue against a trickle of sweat that was making a path down Rick's chest, before moving back to the other man's mouth again; his tongue more confident and daring now, licking its way inside; exploring.

"Mnnrgh," Rick groaned, shifting a little.

"You hurt?"

"Not really," he wrinkled his nose. "Usual aches and pains. Exhaustion. Had a sore back for days now... don't tell the others, especially not Michonne, okay?"

"Okay."

Daryl rubbed a pattern on the small of Rick's back after that, humming softly under his breath but just shrugging when Rick asked him what the tune was.

"Sounds sad," Rick ventured, seeing Daryl's kiss-reddened mouth and wanting to taste him again.

Daryl looked up at him through dark, damp eyelashes. The flickering candle cast shadows across his face, making him look younger, less angular.

"Not sad."

"No?"

"No. Right now? 'Bout the furthest away from sad as I think maybe I've ever been."

~  
Rick jolted awake with the noise of Judith laughing raucously. He was in the bed alone and could hear Michonne coo-ing at her from downstairs. He stuck a knuckle between his teeth, biting down on it to stifle the sob he so wanted to release. He would never forget Daryl's admission of almost-happiness that night, and the memory made his insides feel as fragile as a piece of tissue paper, easily ripped apart.   
He remembered the way Maggie and Glenn had always looked at one another. Shy glances in each other's direction, even when they'd been together for a while; warm eyes and soft smiles. He hadn't felt that warmth when he looked at Daryl, not really. Instead, he'd mostly felt the chill of fear - fear that Daryl would leave or die, fear that he would do something to become the kind of person that Daryl wouldn't want to be around. He'd always felt a strange pull in his heart when he was around Daryl, almost like it was wanting to leave his body and find a new home in the hunter's chest instead, as if every single organ and emotion inside of Rick would rather be absorbed by Daryl, merging with him; becoming a chimera with all their good traits - bravery, loyalty, strength, and none of the bad ones, the ones that could easily have made them the kind of men that Shane and Merle had become.

Having Daryl with him had been like holding onto a railing to stop himself from stumbling, but he had to be strong now on his own, because his family needed him. He couldn't protect them if he was like this. 

He pulled his jeans and shirt back on, smelling Michonne on himself. He ran a hand along the pine headboard, wondering whether it was Michonne's intention for the two of them to share this bed from now on. He recalled how long it had taken him to take off his wedding ring, how it had felt like a betrayal of Lori. He wondered if getting together properly with Michonne would feel like an admission to himself that he would never see Daryl again, and knew that that would make him feel even guiltier.

He was just putting his boots back on when he heard the bang coming from downstairs. Suddenly, there were male voices shouting and the harrowing sound of Judith screaming. Rick grabbed his gun from where it was lying on the pillow, and stealthily crept downstairs, going back into cop-mode. Leaning against the wall with his breath held, he peered into the lounge and saw Michonne and Judith surrounded by four men. They were clad in hunting and combat gear, real redneck survivalist shit. One had a shotgun, the others assorted pistols and knives. 

Michonne placed Judith onto the sofa behind her, covering her with a pillow and then standing in front of her, guarding the child. She stood hand on hips, her chin raised in defiance as the men demanded to know if anyone else was in the house.

"Don't matter, darlin'," the shotgun holder said, his mouth curved into a cruel smile that showed yellow, crooked teeth. "We're all gonna take turns on you either way. Dark meat's always been my favourite."

"Do what you have to do, asshole," Michonne spat. "Just leave the baby alone."

Rick took aim but the men started circling her, the ringleader leaning in close to sniff her.

"You been fucked today, little lady? Can smell your pussy from here."

Rick felt his face begin to get hot, that old red burst of anger wanting to break free. Joe and Gareth had both been on the receiving end of it, and these bastards were going to meet the same kind of fate. As the ringleader reached out a hand to grab Michonne's breast, Rick burst into the room, fired and hit him square in the forehead. The man dropped to the ground as the others raised their weapons. Rick killed two more in rapid succession, but the last one standing grabbed Michonne around the neck, pulling her backwards towards his chest and dragging her outside. She clutched with both hands at his forearm, to no avail.

"Try to kill me and I will shoot this bitch," he growled. "Then you, then the kid. Now drop your weapon."

Rick's lip curled in rage as he watched the man pull a knife from his back pocket and hold it against Michonne's throat. The whites of her eyes were showing, and her breath was coming in gasps from the pressure he was applying to her neck. One headshot was all he needed, but as Rick moved to raise his gun, the man pushed the knife hard enough against Michonne's windpipe for it to draw blood. His dirty blond hair fell greasily over his eyes, and his lips were slobbery. Rick bared his teeth, letting the gun fall to the ground. This fucker. This fucker wasn't going to kill someone he loved. He couldn't lose Michonne too, not after Daryl. It would end him. 

"Rick," she gurgled. "Please. Go and make sure Judith is okay instead. Let him do what he has to."

"Shut your fucking trap, cunt."

There was a shriek as the man gave Michonne a punch to the side of the head, and then a _thwack_ -ing noise. Rick screamed _No!_ as the two of them dropped to the ground in a twisted mess of limbs and blood. Rick darted towards them, seeing Michonne's arms flailing as she struggled to get onto her feet from underneath the man's body. She screamed as she pressed her hands to her throat and felt the wetness of her own blood. Rick helped her up, noticing the patch of red on the snow beneath the man's head. It was flecked with brain and bone.

He looked up. Carl was standing several metres away, crossbow aloft. Rick realised that his son had put an arrow in the back of the man's skull. His eyes were narrowed and his hands were perfectly steady, looking calm and dangerous as he held the weapon. In that moment, he looked like... he looked like _Daryl_.


	6. Chapter Six

It had taken a long time to get to Virginia, but they were here now, and Daryl felt nauseous with anxiety, not even daring to hope. He told Harry to park on the other side of the woods from where he and Rick's cabin had been. He wasn't entirely sure that Rick and Michonne would be happy with a newcomer, and he wanted to talk things through with them before bringing Harry properly into the fold. He trusted Harry enough to know that he would wait in the truck until Daryl returned.

"Leave? And miss all those deep and meaningful conversations we have?" Harry scoffed, handing Daryl his cigarette butt so the hunter could take the remaining few drags. "I couldn't possibly drive off and never find out the Dixon take on the meaning of life, could I."

"Fuckin' prick," Daryl muttered as he began to trudge away. He was still swearing under his breath as he found the particular copse that he had always used when coming back from hunting, in the old days. There were no signs of any walkers, and he felt a jolt of relief that maybe this area was now almost entirely clear. Maybe Asskicker would grow up not even knowing that there had been monsters, once. Maybe _her_ monsters would be the same as anyone's had been when they were growing up – other people. 

The acrid stench began to fill Daryl's nostrils just over a mile and a half from the cabin. Drops of sweat fell from the dark tendrils of his hair into his eyes, stinging them. He broke into a jog, hoping that that it was the smell of the stove - maybe Carl was burning something - or perhaps Rick was having a bonfire. If they were still there, both of those things were plausible.  _If_ they were still there.

There was a smouldering mess of blackened, burnt wood and metal where the cabin had once stood. The earth was scorched and there were items scattered across the ground - a bedframe, some pieces of clothing, and oh God, a child's doll. Daryl sank to his knees, covering his mouth with his hands to stop himself from vomiting.  _The little girl, not the little girl._  

He took his knife from its sheath, gripping the handle so tight that it dug into his roughened palms painfully, and stabbed it into the soft ground in fury. The action reminded him of the day he had put Merle down, but soon his brother's face morphed into Rick's and he dropped the knife, sliding his fingers through the ashes and emitting a throat-splitting sob that he didn't think he was capable of.

He surveyed the area. No corpses, either human or otherwise. After Terminus, that didn't mean shit, though. Some sick fucks could have taken bodies, for food, or to set a trap like the Wolves, or for... He blanched at the mental image of people using his family the way Joe and his Claimers had wanted to. He thought of charred bodies, Rick's and Michonne's and Carl's and Judith's and his mom's and...

He cursed himself for so willingly leaving his family, only to see the people he had left with be killed anyway. He cursed himself for not trying to come back sooner. He cursed himself for everything he had ever done, or ever would do.

~

"They gone?"

Daryl nodded, and was silent aside from his shuddering breath. He smoked a cigarette right down to the filter. It was his last one so he let it smoulder until it burnt his fingers and he threw it out of the truck window angrily.

He gave the dashboard three hard punches in quick succession, bruising his knuckles. 

"What now?" Harry asked, and for all his faults, for all his devil-may-care swagger, he seemed genuinely concerned. "Hey. Daryl?"

Daryl turned to him, his eyes stinging and his bottom lip quivering, and then Harry's hands were opening his shirt and edging underneath the waistband of his jeans, and his family were almost certainly dead, and he might never get the chance to have this again so he might as well let Harry do what he wanted 'cause he was pretty sure that he was going to walk out of this car tonight and lay down and die and...

"Try to kiss me and you'll be sorry," Daryl hissed. He'd said those words before, long ago, the first time something like this had happened. A bathroom stall in a truck stop with a broken light that had kept flickering back to life at inopportune moments; a trucker hat bobbing against the bottom of his stomach and the scrape of teeth. It had been slobbery, and wet, and disgusting, and Daryl had vomited afterwards. He hadn't done anything like that ever again. Not until Rick Grimes, that snake-hipped bastard, had come along.

Harry nodded hurriedly before placing his mouth on Daryl's concave stomach, trailing his lips downwards and sucking his cock into hardness. Daryl wrapped his palm around the side of Harry's face, tugging at his silky fair hair, aching for coarse dark curls instead. He gave a moan that was more of a pained cry, thinking about his friends, his family, being gone. About _him_ being gone. And he'd thought this once before but found _him_ again, and fuck, he knew he wasn't going to be that lucky twice. Because he was Daryl Dixon, and a Dixon never got a happy ending.

Harry squeezed the base of Daryl's cock as he dug his tongue into the slit, and the archer's orgasm felt like guilt but he came anyway, sobbing out the name that he vowed then and there to never say again. 

" _Rick_ ," he sobbed. "Oh _fuck_ , Rick."

Harry sat up, spitting out Daryl's load into his bandana. He wiped his mouth.

"Guess I know his name now, huh."

They both sat back in silence. Daryl wasn't reciprocating, no way, no matter how many times Harry stared over at him. No-one's dick was going anywhere near his mouth, not anymore.

When he heard Harry gently snoring, he put some things into his rucksack – a bag of stale pretzels, a pack of rolling tobacco, and a pocket knife he'd taken from a walker the previous day. He opened the truck door as lightly as he could manage, even though he knew that an atomic bomb probably wouldn't wake the other man he was such a deep sleeper, and stepped outside onto the soft earth. A blast of cold air hit his face and he reached back inside to grab an old picnic blanket. He bit his lip, feeling bad that Harry might wake up cold and wanting it, and chucked the rolling tobacco back onto the car seat before walking away. 

Alone again. _One for sorrow_ , he thought.

*

Rick rarely dreamt anymore, but when he did, they were feverish and vivid. He saw Lori, her skin delicate porcelain as she lay beside him in the bed in their old King County home. Then the cracks would appear on her face, and she would shatter to pieces right in front of him. He saw Hershel's death over and over again, except in his dreams, it was he who swung the katana, a patch over his eye. He saw Daryl, who would back away each time Rick reached out to him, before turning into a large black and white bird and flying away.

"Rick! _Rick!_ " 

He woke with a start, his back aching from the cement floor of the abandoned farmhouse that they were sleeping on. Michonne was leaning over him, her face covered in a sheen of sweat, and panic in her eyes.

"Michonne," he croaked. 

She grasped his hand.

"It's _time_ , Rick."

*

Never been out of Georgia 'til after everything changed. Turned out there'd been jack shit to see anyhow. There'd been whispers of people – children – dying from illnesses now that there were no vaccinations anymore. Mumps, Rubella, Tuberculosis. The whispers said that some were dying and staying dead. Mostly, Daryl tuned out from the chatter after that failed journey to New York. There'd never been much worth hearing before the turn, let alone after it, but now and then he caught patches of dialogue.

_Washington has a vaccine, I heard, I'm telling you man..._

_It's the dogs you need to worry about now. You guys not seen the packs that are roaming? I heard a baby got taken..._

_We gotta get to the coast, haven't I been saying for years that that's the best plan of action..._

He'd spent the past three years – _three fucking YEARS_ \- sleeping in cars, barns, above shops. A week here and a week there, just long enough to chance his luck before other people came along to kill him and take what meagre possessions he had. He missed that damn crossbow, but he'd found a rifle in an abandoned supermarket, and with his knives, he survived the best he could. He ate what he could find – frogs, mudsnakes, insects when things got really desperate and he could hardly sleep because of stomach pains that had him lying in the foetal position.

When the thaw had finally come, it had happened too fast. Swollen rivers burst their banks and whole towns flooded. Rusted cars would float past, along with bodies and driftwood that used to be pieces of derelict houses. Daryl had watched an entire family drown one morning – dad, mom, and two little boys. Twins, maybe. It was hard to tell when their heads kept dipping below the surface of the water. 

After he shot a man in the head for trying to rape a girl in the woods, he wondered if he'd be better off sticking the gun in his mouth too. But that Dixon stubbornness rose up in him, thick and angry, and he kept on going.

Soup kitchens had been set up in old railroad depots, so that people who were following the path of the railway line would be able to stop there for sustenance. They were mostly run by ministers and priests, some feeling ready to re-embrace their faith - Daryl didn't believe people who said they'd never lost theirs. Big pots of lukewarm glorified vegetable water were served up – kids and the old people were served theirs first, not that there was many of either left these days. Some days the queues were peaceful, some days people complained noisily and angrily about the length of time it took to get served, or about the quality of food, some days there were scruffles or even full-blown fights. Only last week he had witnessed a woman get her eye gouged out for taking the last bit of bread. 

He held out his bowl, his stomach rumbling at the sight of a bit of wilted cabbage floating at the top of the cloudy greenish liquid. He gratefully accepted a hunk of cornbread, not caring about the stale texture. People were doing the best they could, learning the old ways of grinding grains into flour and cooking on skillets again. 

"We have water at the other table," the girl behind the serving table told him. She was redheaded, thin, pretty in a gangly, freckled way. "Or there's coffee. I mean, it's not Starbucks, it's pretty old and bitter, but... "

"Never had a Starbucks before anyway," Daryl grunted in reply. He gave a nod. "Thanks."

There were various bits of crockery masquerading as cups – jars, plastic tumblers, even a small milk jug. Daryl picked up a chipped china teacup and held it out while the priest dropped half a teaspoon's worth of freeze-dried coffee into it.

"Enjoy." 

He smiled wanly, and Daryl felt reasonably well fed enough to hide his grimace at the taste. He'd liked a good pot of scalding, strong coffee in the mornings sometimes. Merle would've boiled up a big pot, cooked up some eggs, steak and grits for them, if he wasn't hungover or still tripping, and if they actually had the money for it.

He drank it quickly, and as he made to set the cup back down onto the table, he found it slipping out of his hand and onto the floor, where it smashed. He didn't apologise, but bent down to scoop up the pieces, keeping one part for himself and shoving it into his back pocket.

"Stay safe," the priest called out as Daryl walked past the lines of dishevelled, hungry people, wondering vaguely at what point they'd all ceased to notice how badly humans smelt now. He shoved the last part of the cornbread into his mouth as he left the old train station, relieved to be back outside and away from the stench of boiled cabbage and slimy tinned peas.

More folks were heading along the platform in hope of shelter or food, or both. Or even just plain old conversation. That was one thing Daryl was happy to avoid. The babble of lies and shattered hopes. People-watching was all that passed for entertainment now, so he leant against the wall of the station, not caring about the peeling piss-yellow paint. He automatically patted his trouser pocket for the outline of a pack of cigarettes, but then remembered that he'd not gotten his hands on one for damn near three weeks now.

"Shit," he said, to no-one in particular.

Some people were approaching the station now via the train tracks, trying to bypass the crowds on the platform and then clambering up to queue-jump. Daryl watched with a slight smirk on his face as two boys who couldn't have been more than sixteen helped a little girl up first, her cheeks bright red from the exertion. He clenched his fists to his sides as he tried not to think about Sophia, or Lil' Asskicker. He watched them make their way inside the depot, telling the girl that she would get some food soon, they promised, but his eyes were torn away from them by the sound of someone scolding a different child. Brats were as annoying as they had always been, then.

"Glenn! Get _back_ here."

Daryl took a step to the side to avoid the small child that was hurtling towards him at breakneck speed. He was wearing so many layers of clothing that he looked like a small barrel being rolled across the platform. His little arms were outstretched as he ran, screaming and giggling all at once. He bumped into Daryl's thigh with a soft thud, and the hunter looked down to find a large pair of brown eyes staring fearfully back up at him.

"Glenn, what did I tell you about running away," a man's voice said, exasperated.

"S'okay," Daryl replied to the voice, unable to be angry with anyone that had that particular name. Kid was cute he supposed, all unblemished coffee-coloured skin and messy black curls. Couldn't have been much more than three years old.

"Ho-ly _shit_."

Daryl finally looked up at the young man who had his arms wrapped around the struggling child's waist. Long dark brown hair tied into a ponytail, downy fluff on his chin, and an angry red scar down his left cheek. The boy had aged, aged well, but Daryl would have known that face anywhere.

His mouth twitched into a smile.

"So you kept the crossbow safe for me, huh kid."

Carl looked like he might throw up, his arms hanging by his sides now, letting Glenn escape. He stared at Daryl, speechless until he croaked out the words that made Daryl's stomach lurch and his heart thud so loudly that he worried it would attract every walker for ten miles.

"Michonne! _Dad!_ "

Michonne stood hand on hip, her face breaking into the widest smile he'd seen from anyone in years. Even though she was clad in a long brown leather coat and a crudely knitted bright red scarf, he could tell that she was as long and lean and athletic as she had always been, katana still hung across her back. She was holding the hand of a little dark-haired girl, and Daryl felt his chest tighten as he realised it was Judith.  
   
"Well look who finally appeared," Michonne grinned. "Three weeks, was it?"  
   
He was about to reply  _Give or take a few days, I guess_ , when Michonne stepped to the side, and there behind her was Rick. Curly hair wild and falling to the nape of his neck, his thick beard almost entirely grey and his face lined with wrinkles. Their eyes met, and Rick pointed at him in disbelief before slumping to the ground, putting his head in his hands and twining his fingers in his curls. Daryl drank in the sight of him, from the tatty brown cord jacket he was wearing, to the plump red lips, to the jawline that was as strong as ever. He felt like his feet were glued to the ground. He'd never been good with words, but right now he felt like he had been rendered mute.  
   
"Rick," he eventually whispered, his voice thick and husky.  
   
Rick raised himself up onto his knees. He was shaking, his hand quivering over the gun in his holster, as if he was prepared for an attack, as if he really didn't believe that this wasn't just another stranger standing in front of him.  
   
"Where  _were_  you?" he gasped.  
   
Michonne put her arms around Judith and Carl, and Carl clutched Glenn to his chest. Michonne was crying now, with Carl blatantly trying not to, while Judith's face was screwed up in confusion, perhaps wondering whom the strange-faced man was that was gazing at her father.

Rick finally managed to stand up, reaching out and pressing a hand against Daryl's shoulder, as if he was making sure that Daryl was real. Daryl, like the rest of them, had been ravaged by time. The grind of their existence had put a long streak of silver through the left side of his hair, which he had tied back off his face. His cheeks were gaunt; cheekbones looking even sharper than they ever had, and his eyes were two suspicious, _don't-fuck-with-me_ slits. 

Rick thought he looked breath-taking, like a half-starved wolf; rangy and lethal.  
   
"I've been around," Daryl replied. "Where were  _you_?"  
   
"Looking for angel wings," Rick choked, and collapsed.


	7. Chapter Seven

   
The suburban house they were in had been stripped down to its bare bones; wallpaper damp and ripped, the lilac paintwork in the living room graffitied over with names of the dead, Bible quotes, and nonsensical ramblings like Morgan had scrawled all those years ago. Rick stood by the window, keeping watch as Michonne explained to Daryl how they had ended up there.  
   
"There was a gang," she began, eyes widening with fear at the memory. "They came to the cabin with guns, threatened to rape me and kill all of us."  
   
"What did they want?" Rick gave an involuntary shiver at Daryl's growl. Christ, he'd missed that. The  _I ain't afraid of nothin'_  roughness that had saved their asses so many times.

"Same as anyone – shelter," Michonne hissed, the bitterness all too evident in her voice. "We did what we had to do, then we got our things and split. Ended up back on the road for weeks... we almost lost Judith, until Carl found a nursery school for us to stay in."

Rick took Judith up into his arms, placing a kiss on her dark curls.

"We decided to try to make it back to Atlanta after that," he explained wearily, and Daryl winced at the dark rings underneath his eyes. "We figured that even if everything there was gone, at least it was familiar terrain. At least it had been _home_ , once."

"Same," Daryl agreed, standing up to accompany Rick at the window. This had been a nice street in a good neighbourhood before the turn. There was a skateboard lying in the middle of the road, two of its wheels missing; but a sign that children had once played here happily. "Wasn't nothin' for me back in Virginia. Decided to come back to Georgia. Would sooner die here than anywhere else."

"No-one's dying," Michonne interrupted, a steely look in her eyes. Daryl allowed himself a smile. She may have lost her dreadlocks, her hair now cropped close, but she'd not lost her spirit, and he was glad for that. "We have to believe that we've come through the worst." Her dark eyes softened as she looked over at Glenn, who was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, wrapped in a blue and white gingham blanket.

Daryl swallowed hard, looking from Rick to Michonne. He was glad that the room was dim in the encroaching dusk, petrified that a telltale blush was creeping up his neck and onto his face.

"He's... "

"Ours," Michonne nodded, looking up at Daryl worriedly through her long eyelashes. "Mine and Rick's."

Daryl cleared his throat, sensing that Rick was staring at him, but not even daring to meet his gaze.

"So you two... "

Michonne huffed out a laugh, and Carl smirked from his position on the rocking chair in the corner.

'Pfft! Us two _nothing_. Us two pushed our damn luck too many times. Who'd have thought that the old man was still so damn potent." She glanced at Rick, and he smiled, shook his head and then turned towards Daryl.

"He's a great kid."

"Gotta be, with that name, don't he."

Rick sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth. He paused, giving Daryl's arm a light pat.

"Daryl – you want to hold him?"

"No man, he's sleepin'. Let the kid sleep."

"Both of these kids should be in bed," Michonne said matter-of-factly, taking Judith from Rick's arms and placing a chaste kiss at the side of Rick's mouth as she did so. She gave a brief nod at Daryl before calling over to Carl. "You want to bring Glenn up and help me get the two of them settled?"

Carl tutted but even from the other side of the room, Daryl could feel the icy chill from the stare Michonne gave him.

Rick leant against the windowpane, shaking his head. His eyes were red-rimmed but the crease in his brow had already smoothened since they had gotten back to the house.

"You're _here_ ," he shook his head.

"You doubt me, Rick?"

"I doubted this world would be good enough to get you back safe to me."

"Don't be gettin' damn sentimental on me, asshole," Daryl grumbled, but two bright pink spots appeared on his cheeks. 

Rick reached out to grab his arm, and Daryl instinctively flinched away. He couldn't remember the last time another human had properly laid a hand on him – not a kind one, anyway. Jesus, until today he'd not spoken more than three words at a time for months. He winced at Rick's shocked reaction - the other man looked slightly hurt, and Daryl shook his head.

"Ain't you, man. Just... been on my own for a long, long time. Went back, you know, to try to find you. Cabin was burnt down to the ground."

Rick squeezed his eyes shut with the frustration of missed chances. If only that fucking gang hadn't forced them from their home, or if they'd gotten rid of all the bodies instead of fleeing, maybe they still would have been there when Daryl had come back. 

"What about Shelley, Dean, the others?"

"All dead."

"I'm sorry you had to go through all of that alone, Daryl."

Daryl sank his teeth into his bottom lip.

"Well, here now, ain't I."

"You are," Michonne's voice came from the hallway. She walked into the lounge and put her arms around Daryl. He held his breath, trying to make himself as small as possible within her embrace. She felt cool and calm and clean, and he eventually let himself wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head on her shoulder. She pressed her cheek against his, soothing him. "You're home now, Daryl. You're home now."

*

"I guess you want this back," Carl had said, the first morning he and Daryl had gone out hunting. He'd held the crossbow out, but Daryl had shaken his head.

"Nah, that's yours now. From what your dad told me about you saving Michonne's life, you earned it."

"I'll let you have a go," Carl grinned, and Daryl felt like he wanted to ruffle his hair, but the kid was too old for that now.

They went out together each morning, the woods only about a fifteen minute walk away from the street their 'home' was in. There was still a chill in the air, but the sun came out more often now, and it hadn't snowed in months. Daryl hadn't seen a walker for nigh on ten days, but he and Carl still moved stealthily through the trees, stopping dead at any small noise or rustle of leaves. Most days, Daryl wondered why he bothered coming out to hunt – Carl didn't need him, and usually he'd stand there, arms folded, watching with a strange sense of pride as Carl would easily find and kill whatever animals there were.

Rick stayed by the house now, with Glenn and Judith. _I was a farmer and now I'm a house-husband_ he'd said wryly. He slept in a room with Glenn, while Michonne and Judith were in another. Daryl hadn't passed comment on the sleeping arrangements, asking Carl if it was okay for him to take the other single bed in his room. Most nights he lay awake, listening to the house creak and hoping that that was the only sound he heard. He wasn't used to the soft mattress, the noise of another person gently snoring beside him, or the carpet beneath his feet when he got out of bed each morning.

Twice a week he and Michonne would go back to the soup kitchen with the children, to get them some bread, and themselves some shitty-ass coffee. Michonne said it was one of the things she had missed most, and she would close her eyes, savouring the aroma and taste. It tasted like crap, but it was better than nothing.

"Carl wants to help out here, if Rick will allow it," she mentioned one morning, as she and Daryl sat on the train platform, their legs swinging over the edge.

"Not really the kind of thing I'd have expected him to want to do," Daryl scoffed. "Feedin' old ladies and kids bowls of shitty soup? Really?"

Michonne nodded her head in the direction of the doorway.

"Think the little redhead who serves the coffee has a lot to do with it, if you ask me."

"Psssh. _Stop_ ," Daryl shook his head. "He's never mentioned her when we've been out huntin' together."

Michonne stretched out her long legs, drinking the last of her coffee and taking her scarf off. It was definitely warmer today.

"It's time for people to start doing normal things again, Daryl," she said softly, looking him up and down; so much so that he blinked and looked away. "It's okay for people to try to move on with their lives."

"I dunno," Daryl whistled through his teeth. "Rick won't like it."

Michonne stood up, dusting off her jeans and reaching out a hand to help Daryl up.

"Rick can lump it, then," she retorted, an indignant look on her face. "When I say that people should try to move on, I mean _him_ more than anyone."

"Well, I'm sure he'll just love you tellin' him all that." Daryl shook his head, waiting for Michonne to lead the way back along the train platform.

"Daryl!"

"What?" Daryl's heart stopped, waiting for the piece of her mind that he felt sure Michonne was dying to give him. He knew, he _knew_ what she was getting at, but it had been too long. They weren't completely different people now, but they weren't the same either – and that little cocoon that the prison and Alexandria had created had been blown to pieces long ago.

She rolled her eyes.

"Go in and get me one of those oatmeal cookies they've started making. Do I have to do _everything_ myself?"

*

"People are saying it might be Christmas soon," Michonne commented, rolling her eyes as she watched Rick slide the curtain to one side with a finger. He did the same every day, watching his son and Daryl walk side by side, Carl matching the archer's height now; their hair long and dark, and their bodies clad in denim and leather. Daryl had influenced the boy alright, his absence seemed to have made Carl adopt his appearance and attitude even more; as if he was paying tribute.

"People? What people?"

"The soup kitchen people," Michonne replied, beckoning for Rick to sit down beside her. He did so, scratching his beard and tapping his feet against the wooden floor. He fidgeted constantly, and would do so until everyone was safely back inside the house. It pained Michonne to see the neurotic, obsessive man that he had turned into, but she knew that there was a way to make those demons dormant, if not eradicate them entirely, if only Rick would allow it.

"Christmas doesn't exist any more," he sighed wearily. "Who knows if it's even December at all. Besides, Judith and Glenn have never heard of Santa Claus."

"You don't need Santa Claus to have Christmas," Michonne bit her lip. "Daniel has invited us – all of us – there four days from now."

"Who's Daniel?"

"Rick, you've spoken to him. He runs things down there. Carl has a crush on Jenny, his daughter. You know, the girl with the red hair."

"We're not going. We're better off staying here." Rick stood up again, and Michonne saw him visibly twitch as her voice came loud and sharp in the living room.

"I am going. Carl is going. The kids are going. Maybe even Daryl, if Judith asks him to. _You?_ Do what you want."

She stomped out of the living room and Rick heard her storm upstairs and slam her bedroom door. He threw his head back and sighed, wondering how even in the apocalypse he found himself in the bad books of a temperamental woman. And this was one he wasn't even involved with, let alone married to.


	8. Chapter Eight

Carl hit the squirrel square between the eyes and Daryl gave him a nod of approval. He sat down on a log and lit a cigarette. The pack he was smoking had been given to him by the little redhead's dad in exchange for six rabbits, but Carl had hunted them easily, the girl's approval giving him a bigger incentive than getting Daryl tobacco.

He held the cigarette out as Carl sat down beside him. Rick would be pissed if he knew, but this had become their normal ritual after hunting – a shared cigarette in comfortable silence. Occasionally Carl would ask him about the years he had spent away from them, but mostly they would stare straight ahead, appreciating how more and more they could let their shoulders relax, knowing that more often than not, no walkers would be creeping up behind them.

"Here," Carl placed the crossbow on Daryl's lap.

"The fuck you doing, kid?" Daryl grunted.

"Giving it back to its rightful owner," Carl shrugged, standing up and brushing the lichen from his jeans.

"Nah, you've had it long enough. Pretty sure ownership transfers over after four years."

"You need it for hunting, Daryl. I won't be coming out here with you anymore."

Daryl got up, enjoying the old familiar weight of the bow as he slung it across his back. Carl looked down bashfully at his feet, kicking at the leaves.

"Going to start working at the train depot. Patrolling outside to protect the people there who are coming for food."

"And little Red," Daryl teased, and Carl's cheeks went scarlet. "Your dad know?"

"Nope." Carl crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side. Pure Rick. "Thought you might tell him. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"When you take him out hunting."

They made their way back to the house, Carl pausing on the front steps and turning to Daryl.

"It's time," he said softly.

Judith threw her thin arms around Daryl's waist as they walked into the kitchen, where she and Rick were chopping up some dried-out red apples. Rick watched silently as Daryl dipped his head, allowing her to place a kiss on his forehead. He wasn't sure if some part of his daughter remembered Daryl from before, or if she had been destined to love the first man who had held and fed her no matter when or where they met in life.

"You want some food?" Rick asked, desperately wanting to delay the inevitable moment when Daryl would retreat to his bedroom for the night. He remembered those early times at the prison, lying on top of his bunk, listening for the slightest stirring from Daryl's perch; wondering what he was doing, if he was feverishly tossing and turning too, his mind wracked with guilt and want also.

"Later," Daryl replied, his eyes scanning the work surface of the kitchen. "You got a cloth? Want to give the 'bow a cleanin'."

"Sure," Rick threw him a tattered, greying dishtowel. "Carl got you doing his dirty work for him?"

"Gave me it back," Daryl mumbled. He stroked the top of Judith's head lightly, watching as Rick dug his knife into the lid of a tin of pears, mixing them into a bowl with the apple. "You and me're huntin' tomorrow."

He pinched a chunk of pear from the bowl, sucking the sticky syrup from his fingers as Rick watched him go.

*

Daryl shot Rick exasperated glances every time a twig snapped or leaf crunched under his feet.

"Even fuckin' worse now than you ever were," he complained. "'S like I've a fuckin' elephant behind me."

"Sorry," Rick whispered sheepishly, almost bumping into Daryl as the hunter stopped to lay a snare. 

Daryl took a length of wire from his pocket, speaking quietly as he expertly made a noose.

"Gotta let Carl do his thing, Rick. He's old enough. Can take care of himself, too. And anyone else that comes along, for that matter."

"And what _thing_ would that be," Rick asked warily, moving out of the way as Daryl stood up, his bones creaking as he did so.

"Going after the girl from the soup kitchen. Working down there too, as patrol. He can handle himself, Rick. Seen him out here every day. He's not like us, we had to _adapt_ to this shit. Hell, he grew up with it, he's better placed than any of us to do a job like that."

Daryl stuck his thumb into his mouth, chewing on the nail.

"Bottom line is, he's going to do what the fuck he wants. Bit like his ol' man that way."

He suddenly stopped and bent down, picking up a small chunk of blue jasper from the forest floor.

"Force of habit," he said, then immediately averted his gaze from Rick and kept walking through the trees. 

_Crunch crunch crunch_ went Rick's feet, and then the crunching stopped, and Rick's voice came out in a tremor. He spoke to the back of Daryl's head. Somehow that was easier.

"You haven't been _near_ me, Daryl. You came back, but you never really came _back_."

Daryl dipped his head so that his hair fell over his eyes. Rick stood stock still, his blue eyes sad and waiting for, _needing_ an answer.

"Came back and found things had changed. Didn't know if I still fitted in."

Rick strode forward, putting his hand on Daryl's shoulder, then running it down the length of his arm before gripping the other man's wrist. He rubbed a thumb across the inside, feeling Daryl's pulse. Daryl's eyes darted about, and Rick had to cock his head in order to make any kind of eye contact.

"Hey," Rick implored as Daryl finally met his eyes. "You're _blood_. You don't even need to question things like that. I told you before, Daryl, you being around means _everything_. To all of us. To _me_." 

Rick kicked at the ground in frustration, his hands clamped behind his head. He threw his arms up, spitting out swear words. "You know what? I can't do this dancing around shit with you again. How many fuckin' months did we spend doing that when we first met? Before things changed, everyone always said you should live each day like it's your last. That's more true than ever now. Today could be _my_ last day, or _your_ last day." Rick shrugged. He was done. "Tired of fuckin' around, Daryl."

Daryl didn't respond, just motioned for Rick to sit down beside him on the log that normally he and Carl shared. He pulled his lighter out, flicking it over and over, running his finger through the flame. Eventually, he spoke.

"Did somethin'. With another man."

"That Harry guy?"

Rick squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the reply.

"Yep. Didn't fuck or nothin'. You know that it ain't ever been about that for me. Somethin' happened, didn't do it back. Got my stuff and split."

Daryl spat on the ground.

"You okay with that?"

"The things you've done have always been okay with me, Daryl. You were alone. Michonne and me... I love her, but we were never together, not properly. She was never you. No-one could _ever_ be you, bastard that you are."

Rick desperately wanted to reach out, touch Daryl, press his mouth against the other man's and wipe away any trace of Harry, or anyone else.

"He asked me once who you were, what you looked like," Daryl said. "Told him I didn't remember. Didn't want to talk about you."

"You forgot what I looked like?!" Rick couldn't suppress his amusement.

"Nope."

"If we'd still had that polaroid camera that Maggie and Glenn had, it wouldn't have mattered anyway," Rick mused. "Been times when I wanted to see your face, would have liked a photo."

Daryl's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Didn't want a camera before the turn. Don't want or need one now. Never seen a photo of myself and I sure as hell don't know why _you_ would want one."

"Not even in a school photo?"

Daryl gave a coarse laugh. "Fuck, no. Come class photo time, us Dixons got stuck at the back. Teachers trying to hide the kids wearing threadbare clothes as best they could. Ain't nobody wanting to see that. Weren't no portraits hangin' up in our house, shower of ugly bastards. Ugliest family in all of Georgia."

Rick didn't answer him. He didn't know what to say, coming from a family where everything was All-American and white picket fence-perfect. Daryl had changed since they'd first met, his path towards becoming a younger version of Merle had been diverted the moment his brother had chopped off his own hand, but Rick remembered the same narrow eyes and thin lips, and the screwed-up, hostile face. In Rick's head, that had come from the father that Daryl never spoke about. Rick pictured a mother who was moonshine-soaked, in tatty clothes full of little round cigarette-butt holes, hair rendered unmanageable by peroxide. Then he felt like shit. He knew dick about Daryl's mother – and, he reasoned, those cheekbones had to have come from _somewhere_.

"We doin' this, then?" Daryl asked, his voice gravelly.

Rick smacked his lips together.

"Catching rabbits? I'll try, but I'm worse than I used to me, and God knows I was never great in the first place."

"Not the rabbits Rick, _Jesus_! Ain't got any smarter, have you? Mean – are we doin' _this?_ "

Rick paused, looking at the man sitting opposite, the way he was sucking his cheeks in as he waited for an answer, making his cheekbones jut out even more. Rick reached out and tugged the sleeve of Daryl's jacket.

"Just don't fuckin' leave me again, Dar'. This has to be it, this time."

"This is it, Rick."

Rick took Daryl's head in his hands, and their noses bumped together as he moved his mouth closer. They were both trembling, barely brushing their lips against one another's at first, before Rick flicked his tongue against Daryl's, and he groaned. _Oh Daryl I never thought I'd kiss you again, I never thought..._

And all at once Rick was back against a cold prison wall, he was between clean, restrictive sheets in Alexandria, he was in the cramped passenger seat of a car. He was everywhere, and Daryl was all over him.

No-one was in when they got back to the house, and Michonne had tied her red scarf to the handle of the kitchen door; their sign that they had voluntarily left and would be back soon. 

Rick dwindled at the bottom of the staircase. He felt scared, so scared, like if he put his hand out to touch Daryl, the archer would disappear in a puff of smoke.

"You good?"

"Yeah," Daryl replied quickly, but his bottom lip was quivering and his chest rose and fell much quicker than normal.

Their footsteps echoed as they both climbed the stairs. Slowly, calmly, save for their heavy breathing giving the both of them away. No pulling off of clothes, no collapsing onto the steps because they just couldn't wait a moment longer; just a deliberate walk up onto the landing and then into Rick's sparsely furnished bedroom. There was nothing but a bed, a chair where he piled his things, and a cracked shaving mirror perched on the mahogany windowsill.

Gone were the days of humid heat, when they would shed their clothes as quickly as possible, their bodies sticky with sweat, rolling around on floors and bunks as they kissed, too hot to be so close to another person but not wanting to pull away. Now, they were pale and thin, and the wintry sun that shone through Rick's curtainless bedroom window was unforgiving. They stripped, Daryl looking down at the floor shyly as he pulled off his shirt. His sparse chest hair looked even darker against his almost-translucent skin, but he was beautiful, all sinew and sharp hips and collarbones. They touched one another with rough, calloused hands, prominent ribs against prominent ribs, and it was wonderful. Daryl stroked his thumb against the lines at the side of Rick's eyes.  _Gotta get rid of these somehow_ he whispered, and bit down hard on the other man's shoulder. Rick pressed the tips of his fingers to Daryl's tailbone, feeling his way up along the ridges of his spine, and then he felt the scratch of beard against his neck as Daryl bit harder. 

They lay down on the bed, Rick on his back and Daryl lying up on one shoulder, caressing Rick's body with his hands and his tongue. Daryl thought about how his scars didn't seem out of the ordinary anymore, everyone was criss-crossed with stories of violence and battle now, and Rick was no exception. Rick felt like he was healing under Daryl's touch as the hunter pressed his hand against his breastbone, his knees, the hollows of his cheeks.

"I thought you didn't want... " Rick breathed, and Daryl's mouth met his, whispering through their kiss.  _I wanted, I wanted._  
　  
The bed creaked as Rick manoevured himself on top of Daryl, and he laughed gently.

"That the bed, or my bones?"

"If it weren't them before, it will be now," Daryl replied roughly, wrapping a leg around Rick's back and bumping his hip upwards to meet the other man's hardness. Rick thrust against his leg and Daryl reached down to touch the both of them, fingers encircling both of their cocks.

Rick remembered the first few times they had been together like this. It had taken a long time, and stung, and been bumpy and awkward. And they'd been younger, fierier, more supple back then. Daryl caught Rick's index and middle finger between his teeth, nodding in consent, but Rick shook his head.

"Later. We have time. I want to feel the both of us."

He batted Daryl's hand away, and then it was he that was gripping both of them, his fingers around their slippery shafts, sliding his hand up and down, squeezing, making little circles with his thumb. Daryl groaned, and Rick lost it. His release came thick and fast and all over his stomach, and he felt the blood pounding in his head.

"Let go, Daryl," he pleaded, and the tears pricked his eyes as Daryl gave out a little cry of his name as he erupted.


	9. Chapter Nine

Daryl quietly moved his few belongings into Rick's room just before the six of them went to the train depot a few days later, Michonne telling the excited children all about Christmas. She didn't mention Santa Claus, or gifts, or decorating trees, but she told them it was a special day that you spent with the people you loved. 

Carl sat outside with Jenny, while her dad, Daniel, hovered around their table. He had strawberry blond hair and a thick beard, and Daryl watched with amusement at how he hung onto Michonne's every word. He brought them over stew that was brimming with chunks of rabbit, and then some warm tinned apricots that had oatmeal crumbled over the top of them. 

"Your favourite fruit, right?" he asked nervously, wiping his hands on a towel. His face beamed as Michonne nodded.

Rick gave a derisive snort and Daryl delivered a swift kick to his ankle underneath the table.

"You should sit down too, have some food with us," Rick offered, and Michonne shot him a grin. 

"Getting soft, Grimes," Daryl hissed across the table.

They ate mostly in silence, save for Rick scolding Judith and Glenn ocassionally for arguing. The food was the tastiest any of them had eaten in several months, and the mood in the train depot was almost jovial. There were three other families there aside from their own, along with a teenage couple who spent more time kissing than eating, and an elderly man who started singing carols, tears in his eyes and a quiver in his voice. The teenage couple eventually sat beside him, joining in with Silent Night.

"I hope you don't mind," Daniel began nervously, rifling through the pockets of his khaki jacket. "But I found these and thought the children might like them."

He placed a toy dinosaur and a blue My Little Pony onto the table.

Michonne smiled, placed a hand over Daniel's and nodded.

"That's a lovely gesture, thank you. It's nice for them to have gifts."

Her glance flickered up towards Rick. She nodded her head to the side.

"Didn't you and Daryl say something about going on a hunt today?"

"No," Rick answered, giving a shrug.

"I think you did," she replied curtly, steel in her voice. "In fact I specifically remember you saying you would be doing _precisely_ that straight after lunch."

Daryl stood up, wiped his mouth, and elbowed Rick's shoulder.

"C'mon. We're off huntin'. _Apparently_ ," he laughed snarkily, flashing a sly smirk back at Michonne as she mouthed a silent thank you.

"You think she wanted us to go?" Rick asked, after they had said their goodbyes to Carl and Jenny, who were giggling together outside.

"Yeah Rick, you douchebag. Another ten seconds of your stupidity and she'd have told us to plain ol' fuck off."

"That Daniel guy seem alright to you?"

"No worse than anyone else. Fed your kids, didn't he? Gave 'em toys. By the look on 'Chonne's face, I'd say _she_ trusts him."

Rick pursed his lips and cracked his knuckles. Daryl shot him a warning glance.

"If that's jealousy, I'll cut your fuckin' dick off, _Officer_."

"It's just... I only just got _you_ back," Rick sighed. "Don't want anything to change. Not right now. Not yet."

*

"Ain't nothin' gonna change," Daryl whispered later, as he was lying back with Rick's head on his bare chest. 

Rick grabbed the other man's wrist, pressing the inside of it to his lips. He gave an _Mmm_ of half-hearted agreement, then chuckled.

"You used to sing to me, sometimes, do you remember?"

"No I didn't!" Daryl replied, indignant.

"Yes you did," Rick laughed, taking Daryl's thumb between his teeth and sucking it lightly. "Don't go acting like you don't remember."

"Yeah okay, maybe I did," Daryl relented. "When you had me in your bed and I was too fucked out to argue with you."

"You have a good voice," Rick murmured. His voice was thick with tiredness from a full stomach and an afternoon of fucking and being fucked. Daryl rubbed a hand across his belly, and he groaned contentedly.

"Not what I was always told. Merle said it sounded like a cat being shot in the ass with my crossbow."

 _Talking shit, as usual_ , Rick thought.

"Ain't going to sing for you now, just so you know."

"Okay, Daryl. Okay."

Rick stretched out his legs, burrowing down deeper into the bed. He heard the front door open, and immediately tensed up, but Daryl's arms wrapped themselves around him tighter, holding him in a vice-like grip so he couldn't move.

"It's just the others," Daryl reassured him. "I'm here, Rick."

Rick turned over onto his stomach, twining his fingers in Daryl's dark hair, marvelling at the silver-white streaks throughout it, how it brought out the sapphire of his eyes. He stroked a fingertip down Daryl's cheek, running it along the scruff of his straggly beard.

"Missed your eyes," Rick admitted shyly. "Wouldn't have minded a photo of you just to see those again." He pinched Daryl's nipple lightly as the other man purposely closed his eyes.

"Don't need no photo for yours."

"Oh no?"

"Nope. _Shift_."

Daryl leant out of bed and reached down to where his pants had been hastily discarded on the floor earlier. He dug into their back pocket and pulled out his old red bandana. For the first time Rick realised that Daryl hadn't been wearing it hanging out of his back pocket the way he used to. Daryl cradled it in his palm momentarily, and then leant back down onto the pillows with a grunt, motioning for Rick to hold out his hands.

"Think I needed a fuckin' photo of ya?"

He untied the torn, faded bandana and tipped its contents out into Rick's splayed fingers. Rick held his breath as he let buttons, stones, bits of glass, chunks of china, slivers of plastic, and scraps of material trickle through them. Each trinket fell onto the bedspread, settling in between the creases of their sheets before Rick picked each one back up, studying them with his eyebrow raised.

"What _is_ all this?"

With shaky fingers, Daryl picked up one of the buttons. He remembered where he'd found it – on the floor of a porch of an abandoned house just before he had left New York. He remembered where he had picked up all of these things. Each and every one.

He held the button up at the side of Rick's temple. 

"Not a perfect match, but pretty damn close."

"They're all blue," Rick's words came out in a half-sob as he realised. 

"Yeah."

"Why?" Rick swallowed hard, trying and failing to dislodge the lump that was developing in his throat.

Daryl picked up a piece of blue jasper, letting it rest in his palm before closing his hand and pressing it against his chest.

"Kept me going, some days. Trying to find the same damn blue as those fuckin' eyes of yours. Like a damn scavenger bird, picking shit up off the ground all the time."

Rick pressed his forehead against Daryl's, the words _I'll never really know you Daryl Dixon, but fuck, I love you_ , almost leaving his mouth, but that wasn't them. Instead he leant forward, biting Daryl's bottom lip and sinking into the kind of kiss that would melt his ice and calm Daryl's fire. 

Daryl gripped onto the curls at the nape of Rick's neck, arching his back off the bed as the other man tongued his clavicle. He could hear Glenn and Judith yelling downstairs, and the scraping of chair legs against the kitchen floor as Michonne and Carl sat down - and for the first time in his life he got the overwhelming sense of being home.

Before, Daryl had prided himself on being one of the few Dixons who'd not been in jail. But _damn_ \- if he'd not been gotten good by a damn cop in the end anyhow. One who'd not clipped his wings, but who had made him no longer want to fly.

Rick closed his eyes, allowing his breathing to get heavier. His thoughts drifted off to times when he and Daryl would sit in the prison watchtower together in companiable silence, to evenings when they'd watch and laugh at Judith playing with her red cups.

He was remembering the day when Daryl had first agreed to teach him to hunt, when he heard a soft baritone begin to croon in his ear.

_...And when the cherries ripe with blossoms, be ready and be brave, and remember what we had here when there was something left to save._

Daryl only stopped singing when Rick kissed him again. He suddenly stopped, and Daryl's nose wrinkled up in confusion.

"What is it?"

"It's almost a new year," Rick smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading. Comment below, if you'd like. I would.


End file.
